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The Small Council chamber was cool in the morning, the air heavy with the smell of parchment, candle smoke, and ink. Jon Arryn sat at the head of the table, pale hands resting upon the arm of his carved oaken chair. His son walked dutifully at his side, a small boy of five yet tall for his age, with a silver cup balanced in both hands. Ser Harrick lingered behind them, broad-shouldered and solemn in his plate and surcoat.
The lords were already gathering. Pycelle was bent over a scroll, muttering through his whiskers. Stannis Baratheon stood stiff as a spear, his dark eyes sharp and disapproving as ever. Lord Penrose shuffled in last, old knees bending slowly, yet he held himself with the dignity of a man who had served three kings. At the far end, Petyr Baelish sat poised and smiling, his fingers drumming lightly upon the polished table.
"Your Grace sends his regrets," Jon began, his voice measured. "The King hunts today. His duties here fall to us."
Artys moved among the lords, filling each goblet with deep red arbor wine. His small hand did not tremble. Jon watched the boy with quiet pride. Five years ago he had despaired of ever fathering a son. Now, the gods had given him this child—bright, strong, quick to learn. The lad bowed his head when spoken to, but his blue eyes missed nothing.
"His Grace bids me remind the council," Pycelle wheezed, "that tournaments bring the realm together in peace. The tourney at Lannisport has shown the King's bounty. Merchants prosper, the smallfolk rejoice, and no blood is spilled."
"Except coin," Stannis said grimly. "The lists drain the treasury, and the men grow fat on games when they should be drilling with spear and sword."
"The treasury remains well-filled," Petyr Baelish countered smoothly. "The late king, gods rest him, was no spendthrift. His Grace spends less than Aerys in his madness. We have gold enough for tourneys and wars both, should war come." His grey-green eyes flicked briefly to Jon. "And gold buys loyalty, does it not, my lords?"
Jon did not rise to the bait. "Loyalty is bought dearer with justice than with coin. Yet the King's joy is not a thing to begrudge."
Lord Penrose cleared his throat. "Justice is the matter of law, my lord Hand. The King's edicts lie neglected while knights ride in pageantry. Petty lords grow bold. I've had word of disputes in the Stormlands left unsettled two years past. Such negligence breeds rebellion."
"Then we must not allow it," Jon said. His voice was calm, but there was iron beneath.
Ser Barristan spoke for the first time. "The King's safety is my only charge. Yet I will say this—tourneys keep the knights sharp. A lance in the lists is not so different from a lance in battle. His Grace loves them, and men fight harder when their king's joy is theirs as well."
Artys set down the last goblet and stepped back, hands folded before him as Ser Harrick had taught him. He watched in silence, yet his mind worked. Each man pressed his own interest: Stannis dour and unbending, Baelish smiling as if to mock them all, Penrose bound to his parchments, Pycelle droning about precedents. Only Ser Barristan spoke with no thought of himself. Knights here were revered not merely for their arms, but for the honor they lent to their words.
Jon saw the boy's eyes upon the table, steady and bright. For a moment, his heart swelled. Artys drank in every word like milk. He had been reading from the age of three—so Pycelle oft reminded him, half in wonder and half in envy—and he listened as though each quarrel here might shape his own fate. Jon thought of the Vale, of falcons wheeling over snow-clad mountains, of the years he had despaired of heirs. All of it now lived in this boy, standing quiet by his side with lips sealed but ears wide open.
The council quarrelled on. Stannis railed at wasted ships' levies, Baelish turned complaints into jests, Penrose clutched at charters, and Pycelle's voice droned on like summer flies. Jon let them speak, soothing one, nodding to another, ever the mediator. The Hand of the King must be a stone wall against which storms broke.
At last he raised a hand. "Enough. His Grace will have his tourneys. The fleet will have its coin. The laws will have their judgments. And the realm will have peace, so long as we hold it fast. Are we agreed?"
One by one, the lords gave grudging assent.
When the chamber emptied, Jon lingered. Only Ser Harrick remained, standing by the door like a white cliff, and his son, small yet so solemn with the empty cup in his hands.
"Well, my falcon," Jon said softly. "What think you of the council?"
Artys looked up at him, blue eyes wide. "They fight with words, Father. Like knights with lances."
Jon laughed gently. "Aye. And words can wound as sharply as any lance. Remember that. A lord must listen well before he speaks. Did you hear how each sought to serve his charge? Stannis his fleet, Penrose his laws, Barristan his King, Baelish his coin, Pycelle his learning. Each man holds to duty as he sees it."
"Which one was right?" the boy asked.
Jon laid a hand upon his son's golden head. "All, and none. That is the burden of rule. You will learn it in time." He looked at him then with such pride that his throat grew tight. For all his years of service, for all the weight of crown and realm upon his shoulders, nothing brought him such gladness as this boy at his side.
"Tomorrow," Jon said, "you shall serve again. And you shall read to me tonight from the histories, if you will. We will speak of the falcons of old, and the first Artys Arryn, who drove the First Men from the Mountains of the Moon."
"Yes, Father," the boy said gravely, though a smile tugged at his lips.
Jon Arryn thought then that the gods had not been so cruel after all. They had given him this child, and through him, the Vale would endure.