Seagard, 289 AC
The bells of Seagard rang a slow warning first, then shifted as riders on the walls called out that the northern banners had been sighted. Artys stood at the edge of the mustering ground with a flagon of watered wine resting in the crook of his arm, Ser Harrick a step behind him as always. The wind off Ironman's Bay was sharp and salty, cutting through wool and leather, but the boy barely felt it.
King Robert was with his father and Lord Jason Mallister, looking out over the camps below the keep's walls. There were rows of pavilions: riverlords to the south fields, crownlands men near the docks, and the Vale knights closer to the main gate. Tully trout, Blackwood ravens, Mooton seahorses, and Darry stallions all mixed with the crowned stag and the falcon and crescent moon.
When the first grey direwolf banners crested the distant ridge, a murmur spread through the assembled soldiers. The North had come.
"They're timely, at least," Robert said, arms folded across his broad chest. His warhammer rested against a stone buttress behind him, wrapped in oiled cloth. "Stannis will have Victarion penned at Fair Isle by now. Once the northern men are ashore and the rest of our strength gathered, we'll crush the reavers between sea and stone."
Jon Arryn inclined his head. "Lord Stark marches quickly and brings what men he can. The passes of the Neck slow travel, even for the North."
Artys scanned the column riding toward the gates. Northern men were different from the riverlords—bigger on average, broader, harder around the eyes. Their mail looked heavier, their shields plain but serviceable. Their horses were stockier and built for endurance, not show. At their head rode Lord Eddard Stark, quiet-faced, dark grey cloak over well-worn plate.
Jason Mallister stepped forward to greet them, banners of House Mallister hanging down from the battlements, the silver eagle rippling in the sea wind. Guards opened the gates, and the first ranks entered the yard with iron discipline. No boasting, no songs. Just the clatter of hooves and the thump of boots on packed earth.
Robert did not wait for ceremony. He strode down the steps from the rampart walk and bellowed loud enough for half the yard to hear. "Ned! Took your time, you longshanks. I was about to leave a few ironborn heads for you to chase across the surf."
Eddard Stark dismounted and handed his reins to a retainer before kneeling briefly. "Your Grace." He stood and clasped Robert's forearm. "Winterfell answers."
Robert grinned like a man seeing a favorite hunting hound. "Good. We'll put you at the front and let the krakens piss themselves."
Artys moved with his flagon as he had been taught, silent and sure-footed. Jon Arryn stepped down to meet Lord Stark with more restraint. "Ned," the Hand said, voice lower. "The years have set their marks on us both."
"Lord Arryn," Stark replied, respectfully. He looked older than his age, but steady. He gave Artys a brief nod on noticing him. The boy poured wine into a cup and presented it to his father first, then filled others for Robert and Lord Stark.
Up close, Ned Stark smelled of cold air and leather, not perfume or arbor wine. He accepted the cup with a quiet "My thanks."
Robert had already drunk half his before he spoke again. "We'll hold council tonight. Stannis is sailing round the Arbor to join the Redwynes, and Tywin's men have crushed the last reavers at Lannisport. Once we strike Pyke, this farce ends."
Lord Barristan Selmy stood by in white enamelled steel, arms folded behind his back. He said little, but his eyes missed nothing.
Artys watched the northern bannermen funnel into the camps outside the keep. Grey and white and muted colors everywhere. The Mallisters had set aside ground near the western wall for them, overlooking the bay where supply cogs and warships crowded the piers.
Jon Arryn placed a hand briefly on Artys's shoulder, signaling him to refill the cups. Artys obeyed. He caught fragments of quiet talk between his father and Lord Stark as they walked a short distance away.
Jon spoke of the order of march once they sailed, of shouldering knights with men-at-arms, of how the Vale and North would share supply burdens. Stark listened more than he spoke. He asked after Lysa, and Jon did not hide the strain. The loss of each child weighed heavier with the years.
Artys noted how the riverlords watched Ned Stark with a mixture of respect and wariness. They remembered the Tully-Stark alliance and how swiftly the banners had risen during Robert's Rebellion. The North's strength was not in silk or gold, but in numbers and endurance.
Ser Harrick murmured behind him, "Those are Karstark spears there, see the sunburst? And those with the pine-and-axe are Cerwyn men. The umbers are farther back, I'd wager. Giants in all but name."
Artys nodded, storing it.
In the hall of Seagard that evening, with torches blazing and tables set for the high lords and their captains, Artys stood behind his father's chair as cups were filled and bread broken. Lord Jason Mallister toasted the king. Robert answered with a tale of smashing Greyjoy longships at Gull Tower. Laughter rolled through the benches.
Eddard Stark sat by Jon Arryn's right hand. He spoke with Lord Hoster Tully's sworn men about the state of Riverrun, the taxes owed, and the quietness of the Trident since the rebellion. He did not drink heavily, nor did he boast.
To Artys's eyes, Robert seemed livelier now than at King's Landing. War woke something in him, something loud and sure. Eddard remained touched by the memory of dead brothers and allies lost in the Rebellion, but he had come anyway.
Later, as the hall thinned and only the principal lords remained, Jon Arryn dismissed his son for the night. Artys bowed, left the flagon to another page, and followed Ser Harrick out into the torchlit courtyard. Men were still arriving—tents going up, smiths pounding at forges, ravens loosed with messages to King's Landing and Riverrun.
Above it all, Seagard's great tower stood, the one that had once housed the warning bells that rang at the sight of Ironborn sails. They did not ring this time. The invaders would be met at their own shores.
Artys glanced over at the camps full of merry men eager for glory and song. It was crazy to think that had seen more than most of these squires and knights with their heads full of songs. The chaos of battle a well placed arrow or dysentery from bad water. "Idiots" they reminded Artys of who he used to before Afghanistan. There was no glory on the battlefield only death.