Red Keep, 284 AC — Jon Arryn's Perspective
Jon Arryn leaned back in his chair, the quill idle in his hand. The ledgers and letters of the Hand's duties lay before him, but he hardly looked at them. His mind was elsewhere, on the small boy who perched upon a low stool across the solar.
Artys scratched at a wax tablet, his tiny fingers careful and precise. Lysa hovered behind him, fussing over his tunic and smoothing his hair with constant, doting hands. The sight made Jon's chest tighten with a warmth he had not felt in years.
So long had he waited for an heir. So many years of hope that had turned to worry, and now—now there was this boy, this son of his own blood. Artys was small, still a babe in body, yet bright beyond reason. Every glance, every motion filled Jon with a quiet pride.
"Lord Hand," came a familiar voice, rustling robes announcing the arrival of Maester Pycelle. Jon looked up as the maester bowed, eyes widening as they fell on the boy.
"My lord," Pycelle stammered. "I had not thought… I had not thought a child of three could—"
Jon smiled faintly. "He has taken to letters and numbers sooner than I imagined. He has begun reading these past moons."
Pycelle's mouth moved, but no words came at once. "At… three years? Most children can scarce reckon a letter at five, yet he… he writes as well?"
"Yes," Jon said gently. "He shows great aptitude. Lady Lysa has been encouraging him."
"Oh, my Artys! So clever, so learned!" Lysa gushed, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. Jon's lips twitched with a small, tired smile. She was ever extravagant in her praise, but the boy endured it politely.
Jon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Very well, Artys. Let us see what you recall of the houses of the Vale." His voice was calm, steady, as always. "House Royce of Runestone first—sigil and words?"
"The Royces of Runestone blazon their arms with black iron studs on bronze. 'We Remember.' Ten thousand men," Artys answered clearly.
Jon's chest swelled. Ten thousand men—he could scarcely imagine any child at this age retaining such knowledge. And yet the boy did, speaking plainly and without hesitation.
Lysa clapped her hands, her face bright. "Oh, clever clever little Artys ".
Jon let a faint chuckle escape. She fussed endlessly, but Artys tolerated it quietly, as he had learned to do. That patience and composure brought a small, relieved smile to Jon's face.
"House Corbray of Heart's Home?" he asked.
"They blazon their arms with three black ravens in flight holding three red hearts, on white. 'we know no fear .' Thousand knights and three thousand men-at-arms," the boy replied.
Jon nodded approvingly. "And House Tollett of Tollett's Keep?"
"Two silver hands on green. 'When All is Darkest.' Five hundred men," Artys said.
Lysa leaned down, pressing her cheek to his hair. "My darling boy! Already remembering such details! My Artys, my genius!"
Jon's gaze softened. All the weariness of the Hand's office—the endless petitions, disputes, and treacheries—fell away for a moment. Here, with his son, he felt light. This child, his child, was worth every burden he bore.
"House Redfort?" Jon asked, forcing himself to return to the lesson.
"Red towers on white. 'As Strong as Stone.' five thousand men, controlling the mountain passes," Artys replied.
"And House Waynwood?"
"They blazon their arms with a black broken wheel on green. 'Never fear.' five thousand men, loyal to House Arryn," said the boy.
Jon smiled, pressing a hand to Artys' small shoulder. "You learn quickly, my son. Knowledge is good, but remember. No matter the men at your command, no matter the strength of your house, a lord's word is his bond."
"Yes, father," Artys said, polite and measured.
Lysa cooed, pressing a final kiss to his temple. "My perfect little Artys! you are a little maester already Oh, my precious child!"
Jon inclined his head in silent amusement. She fussed endlessly, but the boy took it in stride. And Jon? He let himself linger in the joy of it. For all the cares of the realm, for all the schemes and letters that demanded his attention, here was his son, and for this brief moment, nothing else mattered.
Artys looked small, fragile even, yet in that small frame was a sharp mind and a steady hand. Jon allowed himself a rare, private thought: he would guard this boy, guide him, and watch him grow into a lord the Vale could be proud of.
For now, Jon Arryn, Lord Hand of the King, could simply sit and watch his son, his pride and joy, and feel a happiness he had long thought impossible.