289 AC
Artys had just finished his sword practice. He was 7 years old, but already twice as strong as the average knight. He had been athletic enough to finish ranger school in his past life but never in the top tier of his class. It felt good to be so strong, but it wasn't just strength—his speed and reflexes were far beyond human comprehension. He did not want to rely on them too much; developing skill was essential, and more importantly, developing a reputation as a fearsome fighter.
Westerosi society was extremely martial, and noble scions were accorded respect according to their ability with a sword, even though martial ability did not translate to good governance. Knighthood and gallantry were venerated in every aspect of this society, and Artys had to play the game.
He was heading to archery practice when a boy his age ran up to him.
"Milord," the boy said, handing him a message. It was a summons from his father to attend the small council meeting. There seemed to be an emergency.
Artys gave the boy a couple of pennies and headed to the changing room quickly. Ser Harrick was behind him, an ever-present shadow.
"Father has summoned me. Seems there is an emergency," he told Harrick.
"Is it the Targaryens?" Harrick asked.
"Maybe. Perhaps the Dornish are plotting something," Artys replied.
He wore his blue and cream doublet with the falcon of House Arryn embroidered on it and rushed to the small council meeting. He arrived just in time and readied the flagons—ale, Dornish red, Arbor gold, and lemon water for Lord Stannis.
The council members walked in, and he heard the booming laugh that could only belong to Robert Baratheon, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. The King attending a council meeting was a surprise; Robert never bothered with ruling. He would rather spend his time whoring and hunting. He was a jovial man and kind to Artys, and a warrior without peer. Artys had seen the King in the practice yard lifting a hammer most men could scarcely swing. But he was a poor king nonetheless—he did little to improve the governance of the realm. The corruption and stagnation continued, not to mention the Lannisters.
The Lannisters had been the last to join the rebellion, and joined when victory was all but certain. Their biggest contribution was butchering the little children of Crown Prince Rhaegar, while Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock, stabbed the King in the back. For their treachery, they were rewarded—Cersei Lannister was made queen. To this day, it rankled Artys. The Lannisters used the fact that Cersei was queen to advance their interests, constantly putting their people in key positions.
His father, the Lord Hand, was too honorable to stoop to such tactics. Artys knew enough of Machiavelli to know that it was important to seem honorable and pious without actually being so. It should have been Vale men, Stormlanders, and Northmen who held key positions. It was essential to reward loyal and competent underlings, but Lord Arryn did not see it so. He was dutiful and trusting; he assumed that just because he was glad to do his duty, others would be too. Seeking remuneration and advancement was natural—better men loyal to them than to someone else.
Robert Baratheon walked in with his father and the other council members. Robert was a large, muscular man, over six and a half feet tall, wearing a black velvet doublet with gold trim. He already had wine stains on it, Artys observed. He grinned at Artys, and his massive hand descended on the boy's back to give him one of his infamous pats. It would have sent any ordinary seven-year-old sprawling on the floor. Artys simply suffered through the King's affections.
"You're growing like a weed. What are you, seven? Eight?"
"Seven name days, if it please Your Grace."
"Heard you battered that Morrigan boy in the yard the other day."
Artys gave the King a smile. "Aye, Your Grace. Perhaps I should start using my left hand from now. Competition is getting a bit stale."
Robert laughed his booming laugh. "You hear that, Jon?"
"A little humility will go a long way, lad," his father chided.
"The lad is barely a page and is besting squires in the yard, Jon," the King said, grabbing Artys in a crushing side-long embrace. "Get me some ale, and wine for the lords."
The Ironmen had descended on Lannisport, setting the Lannister fleet on fire. The whole fleet was lost. They had also attacked Seagard, but Lord Jason Mallister had beaten them back and slain one of Balon's sons. Balon Greyjoy had declared himself king.
King Robert looked like Christmas had come early, Artys observed. War was something the King understood; poring over ledgers and managing granaries was tedious work, and the King left it to Stannis and Jon. The King commanded all the banners to be called. He told Stannis Baratheon to sail the royal fleet around Dorne to the Arbor, where they would join the Redwyne fleet.
The councillors began discussing how best to implement the King's orders. Robert had a bloodthirsty grin on his face, no doubt fantasizing about pulping Balon Greyjoy's head with his warhammer.
As the council adjourned, Artys followed his father, who was having a discussion with Lord Commander Barristan about how to best assault Pyke. They were both veterans of the War of the Ninepenny Kings and had experience with amphibious assaults.
"Father," Artys said, "sorry to interrupt. I would like to join the campaign as a page. I don't ask to be on the battlefield or anywhere near the fighting. I just wish to accompany you as a page and cupbearer," he said, trying to sound as meek and apologetic as possible.
"Son, you are my only heir. Should something befall me, you will be Lord of the Eyrie. I cannot risk it."
"Father, I do not ask to join the sea battles. Once Lord Stannis and Lord Redwyne crush the Iron Fleet, the landing on the islands should be uncontested, and we outnumber the ironborn. I will stay in the camps with the maesters. I am not asking to storm the battlements, Father. I won't be a child forever."
Artys's father hesitated. Jon Arryn had lost two heirs during the rebellion—Elbert and Denys. His eyes were full of pain.
Artys said, "You could ask Ser Barristan about my skill with sword and mace. I have bested squires twice my age, and they will all be joining the fighting. I only ask to observe, Father. Please."
Ser Barristan looked at him. "Mayhaps it could be done, Lord Hand."
Artys vowed to thank Ser Barristan.
"Very well," Lord Arryn said. "Your mother is going to be most displeased," he added darkly.
Lady Lysa was pregnant again. She spent hours in the sept praying to the Mother and Maiden for a healthy child.
Artys just wanted some excitement, to get out of this cesspool of a city and explore Westeros. This was going to be the largest campaign since the last Blackfyre Rebellion—a unified campaign, unlike the civil war that had been the Rebellion. The ironborn were a disgusting culture of evil rapist pirates who were only good for attacking fishing villages when no one was there to defend them.
This would be a great opportunity to meet the other great lords. He wanted to see his grandfather again, Lord Tully, and both his uncles—Edmure Tully and Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.
This was going to be an adventure.