King Robert ordered a feast, and feast they did. The king was the center of attention, a serving girl squealing in his arms while he bellowed The Bear and the Maiden Fair, the other lords joining the chorus in various states of drunken cheer. Artys stood at the back, dutifully filling the cups of the lords at the high table.
Lord Tully, his grandsire, sat with Jon Arryn and Ned Stark in quiet conversation. Artys drifted behind them under the pretext of pouring wine, silent on his feet and listening for anything worth remembering.
"Come here, lad!" his grandfather called, spotting him at once. Somehow the man looked younger than Jon Arryn despite the years between them. "Let your grandsire have a look at you."
Artys stepped forward. Lord Hoster Tully was a broad man, tall but not as tall as his father.
Ned Stark's solemn face eased into something almost warm. "Nephew," he said, "you've grown. You were still at your mother's breast when I last saw you."
"If it were up to my mother, that's where I would still be," Artys said.
The high lords laughed, the sound rolling under the rafters.
Artys leaned in slightly as he refilled their cups.
"My lords," he said, "why would Balon Greyjoy rebel when he's so heavily outnumbered? Does he truly believe he can best the combined might of the Seven Kingdoms?"
Hoster Tully snorted into his wine. "These Ironborn are demon-worshipers, boy. Their drowned god was never fed on sense. Reaving, raping, and plundering—those are holy acts to them. Quellon Greyjoy, Balon's sire, had more wits than the whole lot of them combined. The gods gave him a turnip's worth of sense at least. He tried to drag his people toward something better."
Ned Stark took a slow drink before speaking. "Balon wants none of that. He wants the Old Way back. He thinks strength is in salt and iron, not gold or oaths."
"He believes King Robert is weak," Ned went on, his voice even. "He thinks the realm would rather squabble than stand together. He's gambling the rest of us will be too busy counting old grudges to bother with his islands."
Jon Arryn rested his hands on the table. "We cannot pretend victory is certain until we hear from Lord Stannis. The Ironborn are at their strongest on the water, and their longships have outrun and drowned many greater fleets."
Hoster waved a dismissive hand. "Aye, but this time they meet the king's ships, the Redwynes, and Oldtown besides. They'll not outrun all three."
"Perhaps," Jon said, "but numbers alone do not steady the sea. Stannis must break Victarion before the Iron Fleet scatters. If they slip the noose and raid unchecked, we'll be chasing smoke along every coast."
Ned nodded. "If Stannis wins at sea, the rest is mud and stone. Once we land men on their shores, it comes down to food, patience, and breaking their keeps one by one."
"Taking the Iron Islands," Jon agreed,
Hoster gave a rough chuckle. "Let them starve then. Leave the reavers gnawing their drowned god's bones."
Jon glanced at Artys then, but only for a breath. "All the same, if Stannis holds the Strait, we hold the bite of this war. Until we know the truth of the battle, we speak of victory as a hope, not a fact."
A plump maester hurried toward the high table and bent to whisper in Lord Mallister's ear. Mallister broke the seal and passed the parchment to Jon Arryn.
Jon rose slightly from his seat. "My lords," he said, voice carrying over the hall, "Stannis Baratheon has smashed the Iron Fleet off Fair Isle and won a great victory."
The hall erupted in cheers. Fists thumped the tables, cups were raised, and men shouted Stannis's name.
Jon waited a heartbeat before adding, "We sail for the Iron Islands in a fortnight."
The clamor rose even higher. Men grinned, clapped shoulders, and shouted for salt and iron.
These men are so eager for battle, Artys thought as he refilled cups at the high table. Sieges were dull, slow affairs—but experience was experience, and he meant to take all of it.