295 AC
Blackwater Bay did King's Landing no favors in combatting the summer heat as the city baked like bread beneath the sun. In his younger days, he once thought that with the capital's proximity to an open body of water, you could expect the occasional gentle, breeze like the ones he missed in the Eyrie, but his ignorance had been checked long ago. King's Landing was nothing like the Eyrie, the repugnant stench that clung to everyone and everything in the city was a testament to that. The putrid smell of half a million bodies crammed together, mixing with nearly three centuries of rot, blood, piss, and shit was enough to make a man pray for the Stranger's embrace. He'd convinced Robert to order the city and the drains and sewers cleaned regularly, but still, the horrid smell remained and he was beginning to think that maybe he would need to order a burning down of the villages that sprung up in Flea Bottom. He grimaced at that thought, sometimes the necessary things were the most unpleasant.
The sun had just begun to bloom on the horizon, golden petals stretched outwards into the rich blue of the sky. He supposed such scenery should tug at the sentimental part of him, but Denys found that aspect of him to be dying a slow death. The Red Keep was deathly quiet, barring those who served one role or another in its upkeep, and he sat in a velvet armchair looking out into the horizon, thinking of things that seemed a lifetime ago.
He oftentimes pondered the gods and their capricious nature, why they seemed to give with one hand and take with the other. He would never voice such thoughts, for that would bring nothing but shame and scandal to House Arryn and the Vale, and he'd brought more than enough shame to the line of the Winged Knight, Ser Artys Arryn.
He wanted to ask why the Father delivered no justice when a royal parchment arrived in the nearly indecipherable scrawls of the Mad King demanding the heads of Robert and Ned in the same letter detailing the deaths of the latter's father and brother. He wondered where the Mother's mercy had gone at the end of the Battle of Bells when he set his eye upon the hundreds of nameless corpses littered around and he demanded an answer again when the Old Lion of the Rock presented the mangled corpses of Prince Aegon, whose head had been dashed against a wall, and Princess Rhaenys who had been stabbed half a hundred times or so, in red Lannister cloaks in an attempt to conceal the blood.
And much to his shame, he asked where the Warrior's courage and Smith's strength had been for him when the Lord of Griffin's Roost slew his Uncle Jon but the answer was simple in hindsight. The Warrior and Smith granted no courage or strength to cravens and that was exactly what he had been that day, perhaps that was all he would ever be.
My life was never supposed to be like this, Denys thought in a dejected manner coupled with bitterness, the latter of which he tried to drown out with a wineskin of pear brandy, a languorous sweetwine from Tyrosh. As he drank, Lord Arryn's sky-blue eyes strayed left and landed on his longtime friend and more recently overlord, Robert of House Baratheon. Had it been a decade prior, he may have chastised himself for cringing at the sight of his king but much has changed. There he was! The man who slew Prince Rhaegar by crushing in his breastplate with such strength that his rubies seemed to float in the air. Now, he sat sweating like a pig through his silk tunic and guzzling down spiced honey wine imported from Lannisport, like a whore from Baelish's brothels guzzled a man's seed. Luckily he had talked Robert down from ordering another tun of wine this moon in favor of a mere puncheon, but the result would be the same: Tywin Lannister's grip on their balls would grow tighter with each drop.
Hours passed and as the sun floated high above the realms of men, glaring, Denys of House Arryn felt his tunic soil with sweat. The summer weather seemed to be growing worse with each passing year, a sign of changing seasons or a fearsome winter, some said. The nobles of court would begin to rouse from sleep by their servants to break their fast, followed by an intermediate period for mingling, then the King's Court but this all hinged on Robert of the House Baratheon being someone who took the honor of kingship seriously. The man who once feared as the Demon of the Trident would rather sleep, drink, whore, and do it all over again like a never-ending celebration of nothing, and since he was but a mere servant to His Grace, he couldn't refuse the royal command of drinking until the sun came up.
My life was never supposed to be like this, he mouthed the words echoing in his mind. He wasn't meant to be the head of House Arryn and marry a Lord Paramounts daughter, nor was he meant to serve as Hand of the King or as any part of the small council. Elbert or his Uncle Jon would have known how to serve as a proper Hand, patriarch, father, friend, and husband, much better than he ever could. It seemed just yesterday he was a boy of fourteen watching with a solemn expression as Uncle Jon's heir rode off to accompany the Starks on their quest for justice. "Cheer up cousin, I'll be back faster than a falcon," had been his words before riding off into a sunset from which he would never return. Denys was born to the cadet branch of House Arryn and mothered by Lady Alys, and it was made clear to him that he would never sit the Weirwood Throne or hold the titles of Lord Arryn and he had begrudgingly come to accept that until he became the heir to the Vale riding off with Ned to marry Hoster Tully's youngest daughter. Some had whispered that Lysa Tully had given up her maidenhead to a stableboy or a man of her father's household guard, but Denys couldn't bring himself to care, how could he when he only rose to his position by the way of his House's near-extinction and no other options?
So like the words of his House, "As High As Honor," he did what was right and tied Hoster Tully and the Riverlands to their faction in two ways for the greater good, though he knew that it was never meant for him.
"Wouldn't kill them to send a gentle-fucking-breeze every now and then…can't get any worse...now..." Robert's low, drunken rambling had caught his attention and when he looked over, seeing the sad state of his lifelong friend, he felt a pang of guilt run through. Oh, Robert, you haven't the slightest clue how much worse things have truly become. Almost as if the gods wished to prove a point, the doorway to the royal chambers opened allowing in the dreadful sunlight and the dreadful woman who likely fed off the agony of men and the suffering of children.
Cersei Lannister was a beautiful woman with golden-spun hair and emerald-green eyes, the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros some would say, and despite her looking and occasionally acting the part of the beautiful queen, it was only skin deep. She walked in with a red wine glass in hand, he hoped it was dornish. Denys knew Robert noticed her presence when the chair in which he sat, groaned in protest and agony beneath the weight of the Lard Lord of the Seven Kingdoms who would soon be too fat to sit a horse. The Stormlander's bleary eyes took her in with a groan of his own, a groan of disappointment and Lord Arryn could hear his thoughts. "Why the fuck is she not sweating too?" He would likely grumble to himself and reply with, "The woman's heart is far too cold to feel the heat, the Corpse Queen come again, she is!" he would carelessly declare.
The Lioness' green eyes focused on him like prey, regarding the falcon with an even stare that he knew concealed hateful thoughts and murderous desires the likes of which would make the uninitiated squirm beneath her gaze. But we are initiated, aren't we Cersei?
"Hand."
"Queen Consort," he replied, relishing at the slight twitch of her delicately cared-for eyebrow. Denys Arryn had no love or respect for Cersei Lannister and he knew she felt the same in that respect, she had told him after all.
"Leave us." She commanded, not even bothering to see his reaction as she turned to face her husband by law in preparation for what she might say when he finally left the chambers. He knew what he wanted to retort, effectively exposing the wench but he held his tongue silently cursing both himself and Robert for not gifting the Lioness of Lannister with the scalding tongue-lashing she had practically begged for across the last fifteen years, but he didn't give in to the temptation, he needed more time. There was no point in arguing with Robert when it came to Cersei, for all the man's strength, it was nothing more than a hindrance on the battlefield of wits and weaponized words which she called home.
Denys felt he had a good grasp on how Cersei's mind worked when dealing with Robert. She knew of his aversion to any fight he couldn't win by crushing his opponent with a hammer, and in a battle of words, she could be as vicious as the beast on her family's banner. All she truly had to do was poke and prod at him with that forked-tongue of hers until Robert yielded to her whimsical demands in exchange for peace and quiet until she wanted more. It was pitiful but effective.
When the time comes for the truth to meet the light, I'll gift you five things: a shroud of grey, a shroud of white, a running knot, a sword, and a cloak the same color as a starless night, he promised.
"As you command, Your Grace." He bowed low, low enough to hide his hate-filled scowl, and exited the chambers, moving down the hall at a brisk pace, the gears in his mind whirled faster than dragons flew. Truthfully, it had been him who came to Robert and coaxed him to send for Prince Steffon to return home, though his friend knew not why, he only received a rehearsed phrase in hopes that it would end there. A small part of him was shocked by how easy it was to convince him. The Hand of the King believed that every ruler should be cautious, even amongst friends, especially amongst friends, because those you held the closest were in a better position than your enemies to stab you in the back.
Denys had stumbled upon something he wasn't meant to a fortnight ago. Something he knew he was never meant to see, never meant to hear whilst walking past Cersei's chambers.
A man's groan. A woman's moan. Two names. A sensual display.
These were the things he had seen or heard and the mere thought of it all made him want to vomit up the very meal he had eaten to break his fast. In hindsight, their relationship truly paralleled that of Queen Naerys and Ser Aemon the Dragonknight, though, at least the Targaryen's little rumor had been nothing more than that. Unlike her predecessors, Queen Cersei did not share the royal chambers with King Robert, she had apartments of her own which were mostly guarded by Ser Jaime, who sometimes entered and stayed for hours, but now he knew why. And they had always been close as children, that much was clear from the occasional chaste kiss when the Kingslayer had to rotate shifts with another White Sword...like a husband kissing his wife goodbye until he returned home.
"Seven Hells!" Denys swore aloud, rubbing a hand through his hair, ignoring the looks thrown his way by servants, court nobles, and red cloaks as he continued to his destination. They are truly fucking like husband and wife right under everyone's nose, aren't they? Come to think of it, he remembered the brief look the Lannister twins shared when their impish brother jokingly mentioned in passing how the last three royals of House Baratheon seemed to favor their uncle more than their father. Did he know? The Lord of the Eyrie wondered, but dismissed the thought a second later, it made no sense. The Imp hates his sister and father too much to let an opportunity like that escape his grasp.
And yet, he loves his brother too much to sacrifice him just to watch his father and sister fall…
He wondered if anyone else knew, if there was anyone he could turn to. Denys did not trust him as far as he could throw him, but he wouldn't be surprised if the Spider was aware. How could he not be when he possessed a spy network that stretched from Old Town to Asshai-by-the-Shadow? Lord Baelish didn't seem like one to care for matters that didn't involve coin. Renly was a boy masquerading as a man who cared for nothing aside from frolicking in the flower gardens of the Reach whenever the opportunity presented itself, Pycelle was a dopey old goat that didn't have another five years in him, and Stannis was far too rigid to assume such a thing.
Damn it, this was all too much for him to handle, for any one man to handle. He could admit that his unwanted discovery had started him down the path of something that while not baseless, belonged to the wilder category of ideas but who wouldn't after witnessing what he had?
Robert, Stannis, and Renly held the same coloring of black as a storm and blue as the sea. Stannis' daughter was black as a storm and blue as the sea. Princess Jocelyn was black as a storm and blue as the sea. Prince Steffon was black as a storm and blue as the sea. Robert's little girl, Mya, who was surely a woman now, was black as a storm and blue as the sea. Even his acknowledged bastard living at Storm's End followed the trend but for some reason, Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella did not.
He knew that his line of thinking was leading him down a rabbit hole, but that was why he called for Robert to summon Steffon home. He needed to see the boy, to look into his eyes and at his face, to shake his hand and see if he inherited his father's strength.
He needed to know that if Robert did something drastically stupid, Prince Steffon would be prepared to sit upon the Iron Throne and become King Steffon at a moment's notice.
Denys of House Arryn sighed as he headed for the courtyard to watch his son, Artys spar. He would be a better Lord Arryn than his father, Denys would make sure of it or die trying.
This never should have been my life...