285 AC
The Red Keep baked under a low sun. Its red stone glimmered like warmed iron, and the battlements gleamed, catching every shadow of the courtyard below. Artys shuffled along the wall, golden hair tousled, blue eyes unblinking. At his small side, Ser Harrick Tollett kept careful watch, his bulk bending to match the boy's diminutive height.
The yard thrummed with motion. Knights sparred in pairs, shields clanging, swords ringing, feet shifting with measured weight. Men-at-arms drilled in formation, pivoting, thrusting, recovering. Artys' small hands gripped the rough stone as he catalogued every detail: the angle of a swing, the pivot of a foot, the hesitation before a thrust. Reflexively, his tiny body twitched, though he could not yet lift a training sword.
Harrick rumbled beside him. "See there, little lord? One misstep, and a man may die."
Artys' gaze followed two knights circling. Their shields clashed, one misaligned, one overreached. Foot placement. Weak shoulder. Weight too far forward. Noted.
From the far side of the yard, a booming voice echoed. "Little lord! Keep close!" Ser Aaron Santagar strode forward, armor polished, boots ringing on stone. "Observe, boy, but do not wander. Curiosity will not save you here."
Harrick inclined his head. "He watches well, Ser Santagar."
Santagar crouched slightly. "Notice how they grip the steel. How they shift their weight. A man may seem strong, but one poor step—one hesitation—and he falls. Steel is merciless. Watch carefully. Observe timing, balance, openings. Even the strongest man has flaws."
Artys pressed his fists to the battlements. Every swing, every shift, every hesitation… catalogued. Openings noted. Footwork memorized. I see it all.
At the center of the yard moved a towering figure: His Grace, King Robert Baratheon. He swung a massive warhammer with precision. The weapon's head cracked against training shields, sending men stumbling backward. Most could scarcely lift such a weapon, yet Robert wielded it with skill and control, timing each swing to exploit a gap, adjusting his stance fluidly to maintain balance. Each motion was deliberate, a blend of brute force and cunning technique.
Santagar's voice carried, sharp with approval. "Observe carefully. His Grace wields that hammer as few could, not by force alone, but with skill. Even when power is unmatched, openings exist. A lighter, quicker man could exploit them—but few are so trained."
Artys' eyes followed the king's every move. Timing, balance, arcs, gaps… recorded. Reaction windows. Speed vectors.
Nearby, Ser Barristan Selmy moved with quiet precision. Each parry and thrust measured, efficient. Older knights looked clumsy beside him, their blows heavy, wild, unrefined. Harrick nodded. "Skill without strength falters. Strength without control fails. Watch both and see the difference."
Artys' eyes flitted between Robert and Barristan. One uses power and timing. One uses precision and control. Both are masters. Openings noted. Movements catalogued.
Across the yard, men-at-arms drilled in staggered lines. Shields rattled, misaligned, overreaching. Artys observed who anticipated his neighbor, who lagged, who hesitated. Every lapse marked, every overcommitment catalogued.
Santagar raised his voice. "Formation, little lord. Alone, a man may survive. A broken line, and many fall. Watch the shields, the alignment, the pacing. Every knight's movement affects his neighbors. Discipline counts as much as strength."
Artys noted the sequence of footwork, the swing of the sword in relation to the shield. Formation matters. Alone a man may survive, but out of sync—he is vulnerable. Foot placement, timing, shield orientation… noted.
Mounted knights entered, lances upright, horses trained to the courtyard. Artys' eyes swept over each. Weight transfer, balance, foot in stirrup, stance in saddle—he memorized the small adjustments that kept lance and rider aligned. Horses' hooves added force to every strike, subtly altering timing.
Santagar gestured to the group. "Observe mounted men. Balance, weight, timing—adjusting for a horse changes everything. Power alone is not enough. Skill matters above all."
Artys' gaze shifted back to Robert. Each hammer swing rattled shields, men staggered, yet each arc, step, and swing was measured, precise. The king's training was a mix of timing, leverage, and anticipation. Artys catalogued it all, noting where a weaker man might falter, and where openings existed—even for a giant such as Robert.
Arrows hissed across the yard. Archers fired in disciplined rhythm, tension in their arms, precise release. Even small movements—the tilt of the wrist, the step back to brace—were stored in memory.
These men are larger, stronger than their medieval counterparts. Some possess low feats of strength beyond ordinary human. Power translates into presence, influence, respect.
Artys' eyes swept the banners flying over the yard: minor houses, sigils he had only heard of, some for centuries, others recent upstarts. He observed which men drew instinctive respect, which were deferred to, which balked before superior force or reputation. Strength and skill were inseparable from political sway here.
Santagar pointed to a cluster of knights struggling to coordinate. "See how inexperience shows. One weak link, and the formation falters. Observe their interactions. Steel is one measure. Command is another."
Artys noted small gestures: a hand on the shoulder to steady a comrade, a quick word to adjust position, eyes darting to assess strength in neighbors. Skill and coordination define authority here. Brute force alone is rarely enough to lead men. Timing, positioning, reputation, respect—each matters.
Robert's warhammer struck again. Shields groaned, men staggered, yet none fell heedlessly. Each swing tested their defenses, forced adjustments.
Power is persuasive. Skill earns deference. Martial prowess confirms legitimacy. This is the world I am in. My observations will guide me.
Barristan struck a measured rhythm with his sword, moving between pairs of knights. Each block and thrust forced a response, subtle corrections, discipline reinforced. The older knights strained to keep up, yet his precision forced them to adjust.
Artys' gaze shifted from him to Robert to the men-at-arms. Every stance, every move, every response is noted. These are the lessons I will carry forward. Strength alone is insufficient. Skill, timing, observation, reputation—these shape the battlefield and the court alike.
Harrick ruffled his hair. "Enough for today. You have learned more by watching than many men do in a week. Let the yard finish, and we shall return to the Keep."
Artys lingered on the battlements, golden hair bright in the sun. Blue eyes followed His Grace, Ser Barristan, and the yard below. Every swing, every pivot, every staggered step and slight misalignment had been recorded, filed for future use.
He watched the banners, the faces of men, the subtle ways the young knights deferred to older men, how some drew confidence from the presence of the king. The yard was a school of warfare, but also of politics: who could command, who inspired trust, who relied on brute strength alone, and who understood timing, coordination, and influence.
The afternoon sun began to dip, casting long shadows over the courtyard. Artys finally stepped back from the battlements, his small body weary from hours of observation. Yet his mind remained sharp, every motion, every stance, every hint of strength or weakness embedded in memory.
Every swing, every shield, every lance, every horse, every man—I have seen it all. Strength, skill, timing, coordination, reputation. All of it counts in this world. All of it is remembered.