287 AC
Aoi had settled into his new life as Artys Arryn, first and trueborn son of Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and Warden of the East. The life of a noble in Westeros was that of a prize horse. He was surrounded by servants, maids, and guards. There was no privacy; he was almost never alone. The maids drew his baths, dressed him, and fed him. And the nobles, for their part, treated their servants like appliances—tools beneath their contempt. This made Artys uneasy. He could easily be betrayed—someone could poison him, sell his secrets, or have him killed.
I am only five, he told himself. Focus on what you can control. His paranoia was getting the best of him. Poison, disease, and other earthly ailments could not affect Captain America in the comics. The same would apply to him, he told himself. When he became an adult, even his aging would slow so dramatically that he might stay in his prime for centuries.
This world was more brutal than Earth. He had scoured the library of the Red Keep for history books. The technology in this world had remained stagnant for the better part of five thousand years—eight thousand if some maesters were to be believed. Artys suspected the seasons had something to do with it. Dealing with a mini ice age every few years meant that all of society was built around survival.
Artys sat with his lord father and lady mother to break his fast. Honeyed porridge, a dozen eggs boiled soft with salt and pepper, along with heaps of bacon burnt black. Breakfast of champions, he told himself and dug in.
"Eat slowly, child," his father chided gently.
"Yes, Father," he said through a mouthful of bacon.
"Artys, I have good news for you. From today, you will be serving as cupbearer to me."
"He is just a child! He should be playing with children his age, not worrying about governance of the realm," exclaimed Lysa. "Surely courtly duties can wait till he is older."
His mother had suffered another miscarriage two moons ago, the third in as many years. Her face was pudgier, and she was getting stouter around the waist. Artys felt guilty. Did my birth permanently damage her body? he wondered.
The marriage of his parents was strictly political. Jon Arryn was a kind and dutiful man, but young maids dreamt of marrying gallant knights, not lords old enough to be their grandfathers, missing teeth and all. Even now, Artys sensed nothing but duty between the two of them. Each subsequent miscarriage had made his mother more paranoid and overprotective of him.
"It is fine, Mother. I am more than old enough. The Grand Maester will tell you how far ahead I am in my lessons. And if I am to be Lord of the Vale, I have much to learn from Father."
Jon Arryn nodded approvingly at his son. "Ser Harrick tells me you snuck into the armory and got yourself a tourney sword."
Artys paused his chewing for a second, swallowed, and said, "It is only a tourney sword, Father. Ser Aron Santagar would not let me practice in the yard, so I helped myself to a sword so I could practice what I see alone. And Ser Harrick should hold his tongue; isn't a sworn shield sworn to protect my secrets as well?" Artys grumbled.
Lord Arryn chuckled. "Ser Harrick keeps no secrets from me. But fear not—he spoke of this matter to convince me to begin your training."
Artys glanced up from his plate. "Truly? Can I, Father? I am big for my age, bigger than most of the pages in the yard. If not swords, could I at least begin with bows?" he asked hopefully.
"You may, under Ser Harrick, for an hour in the morning. But I expect you to uphold your duties as cupbearer unfailingly and keep up with your lessons with Pycelle."
"Yes, Father. You have my word," Artys said with a grin.
His mother interrupted in a high-pitched voice, "Artys needs children of his own age to play with, my lord! I see him alone with dusty tomes or in the yard staring at knights."
This woman… leave me be. Artys' mind was still affected by his child's body, but even so, he could not stand other children—their sticky hands and snotty noses.
The queen had given birth to twins, Joffrey and Myrcella. They were two years younger than Artys and mostly confined to the nursery. His mother had taken him there multiple times. He read them stories from books. The Joffrey boy was an unruly brat who tried to tear multiple pages from a book that had been hand-painted by a septon. Myrcella, on the other hand, was a sweet little princess and, as three-year-olds go, very clever. She listened to his readings well.
The only good thing about the nursery was being able to ogle the queen. Cersei was the most beautiful woman Artys had ever seen. She made the Hollywood stars of his previous life look like ugly kitchen drabs. The nobles of Westeros were as inbred as their counterparts in medieval Europe, yet somehow their genes were different. People in general were bigger and stronger than their earthly counterparts. There was magic in this world—it was the only explanation.
How could all Lannisters have blonde hair and green eyes? Crakehalls were all big-boned giant men, as were the Baratheons. And the dragon skulls he had seen in the bowels of the Red Keep swept away any doubt he had of this world being normal. All logic dictated that an animal of that size should never be able to fly, much less breathe fire. But the Iron Throne itself was proof that beasts like that had existed and brought the whole world to heel.
"Artys! Artys!" His mother's hands shook his shoulder.
"Sorry, Mother, I was thinking…" He put on the most innocent smile he could manage. "My books are my friends. I've been reading of my namesake, Artys Arryn, and the Dragonknight, and Ser Duncan the Tall. They keep me company. Boys my age do not interest me."
Lysa's mouth tightened, ready to protest, but Artys spoke over her before she could begin.
"Father, when do I start my duties as cupbearer?"
"Right after we break our fast," Jon Arryn said. "You will accompany me to the Small Council chamber, pour wine for the lords, and listen."
"Yes, Father, I will," Artys said, with all the solemnity a five-year-old could muster.
Boredom was the true foe. No ps2, no iPod, no noise or light to occupy him. His sharpened mind rattled in its cage whenever the hours dragged. At least this will be something, he thought. A different sort of day.