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Artys was forbidden from going anywhere near the fighting. A sprawling camp had taken over the shores around Lordsport, and boredom gnawed at him. So he appointed himself in charge of the sick and wounded. He wasn't a trained healer, but he still knew more than most of these so-called barbers who passed for field medics in this backward place.
He ordered big pots of water to be kept at a boil purely for washing hands, and made everyone scrub with lye soap before touching wounds. Anyone who wondered why a seven-year-old was barking orders shut their mouths quick enough once they saw the falcon of House Arryn. No one wanted to argue with the son of the King's Hand.
His father had ridden to Pyke with five knights and twenty men-at-arms, Ser Harrick among them, to guard his person.
Lord Stark walked in just as Artys was ordering a Lannister man-at-arms not to pull an arrow from his own shoulder and telling a servant to fetch clean linen.
"You seem busy, nephew," Ned said, mildly amused.
"Ah, uncle, you're back. Has Pyke fallen?"
"Yes. We breached the south tower. Thoros of Myr was first through the battlements with his flaming sword."
"That must have been a sight," Artys said wistfully. "I didn't know you knew the healing arts, lad."
"I'm no maester, uncle. I only know what I've read in tomes, and what I've been able to glean from Pycelle," Artys said, trying to sound modest.
"Well, more men will make it home because of you," Ned said, patting his shoulder.
"What are the terms of the surrender, uncle?"
"Balon Greyjoy will bend the knee. His last living son will serve as my ward and hostage as surety for Balon's good behavior."
"Those terms seem too lenient," Artys said. "Balon is responsible for so much rape and pillage, as are his kin. They should lose their heads. I've heard of this Rodrik the Reader—the most powerful of the Greyjoy bannermen, and Balon's good-brother by marriage. Perhaps he should be made regent."
Eddard gave him a look. "The king has made his will known. It's for us to carry it out, not unmake it."
A boy of nine or ten stepped out from behind Eddard. Jittery, thin, uncertain. This must be Theon, Artys thought.
He had nothing but disdain for the Ironborn, but the boy had lost two brothers already and was blameless in his father's war. Artys gave him a cool, measuring gaze.
"You must be Theon."
The boy swallowed before he spoke. "Aye… Theon Greyjoy."
He tried to stand straight, but his eyes kept darting around the tent—at the wounded, at the blood, at Ned Stark's hand resting heavy on his shoulder.
Artys studied him for a moment. "You'll have lighter cuffs in Winterfell than most of your kin deserve."
Theon flinched at that, then forced a weak smirk. "I'd rather cuffs than a noose."
Ned's voice came low. "That's enough, Artys. The boy's fate is sealed. He'll answer for his father's oaths by living up to them, or not at all."
Artys inclined his head, but his eyes didn't soften. Theon shifted again, unsure whether to speak or keep quiet.
A serving man hustled in to report that the last of the Ironborn captives were being marched to the ships. Ned dismissed him with a nod. He turned back to Artys.
"Your father returns before nightfall. He'll want to see what you've done here."
"I'll have the wounded sorted by severity before sunset," Artys said. "Half these fools would've lost limbs—or died—if I left it to those butchers with their bone saws."
One of the barbers, hearing that, pretended not to. Ned's mouth twitched, the closest he came to a smile.
"You already speak like a lord," he said. "Seven years old, and acting more a commander than half the captains outside."
Artys wiped his hands on a cloth. "Better they learn to take orders than die of filth and negligence."
Theon's eyes went to the boiling kettles, the linen, the clean tools laid out on planks. "They don't do it like this on the Islands."
"No," Artys said flatly. "On the Islands they drown boys to please some squid god. Then call it strength."
Theon's nostrils flared, but he said nothing.
Ned let the silence hang a moment, then gave Theon a nudge. "Have the boy escorted to my pavillion".
The boy followed him out, casting one last uncertain glance at Artys.
Ned and Artys stepped out of the tent toward the bonfire where kettles of water boiled."The whole realm knows you for a man of honor, Lord Stark," Artys said. "I doubt you would behead a boy of ten, no matter how vile the deeds of his sire."
Ned studied him a moment, then sighed. "You're too wise for your age, lad. You may be heir to the Vale, but you're still a child. Be free of these thoughts for a while. Learn to be a boy and let us carry such burdens."
When Lord Stark left, a Blackwood archer staggered in holding his side, blood seeping between his fingers. Artys snapped for clean cloth and hot water without missing a beat.
He had no time to think of Theon Greyjoy.
Outside, the camp buzzed with victory—shouts, steel on wood, the stink of tar and salt. Lordsport still burned in places. Smoke curled over the ruined town and the shattered masts in the harbor.
War was ending here. I'm already a veteran of two wars, Artys thought.