Lannisport smelled of wine and pride .
The war was won—the Iron Fleet drowned, Pyke battered, and Balon brought to heel. Word of the victory spread faster than any raven, and the Lannisters—eager to be seen as part of Robert's glory rather than latecomers to yet another war—threw open their gates and coffers in celebration. Gold banners flapped from every tower, merchants rolled out their finest casks, and half the city tried to drink itself blind.
Artys rode in with his father, Lord Jon Arryn, and the king's host. His doublet was sky blue and cream, trimmed with cloth-of-gold, but compared to the brocade and gilded armor around him, he felt naked. Still, the falcon of House Arryn drew respectful looks. The smallfolk lined the streets, cheering Robert's name while gawking at the knights of the Vale and the banners of Riverrun and the North.
King Robert drank in the cheers like wine. He rode at the front beside Eddard Stark, laughing, waving, and shouting promises of feasts and barrels of ale for any man with a cup. Artys had convinced his father to free the thralls and take any shipwright who would come to the Vale. He meant to double the Vale's fleet. Gulltown already boasted a small but formidable navy, and Artys wanted strength at sea. Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it—that was his motto. Shipwrights could build merchant ships as easily as warships. The Vale was impregnable—the Bloody Gate had never been breached—and the only reason they had ever bent the knee was dragons, and dragons were gone. That meant the Vale could project force across Westeros and retreat through the Bloody Gate if things went awry.
By sundown, the long tables were set in the shadow of Casterly Rock. Torches blazed. Whole oxen turned on spits. Minstrels played over the din of drunk knights, victorious soldiers, and merchants angling for favor.
Artys stood behind his father at the high table, as was his place, filling cups when needed and listening to talk not meant for children.
Lord Tywin Lannister sat to the king's right, bald except for his sideburns, his gold hair gone to silver in places, but his eyes still hard and cold as coin. Eddard Stark sat on Robert's left. Hoster Tully, flushed with wine, spoke quietly with Jon Arryn about rebuilding the western fleets and garrisons along the coast. Lords Redwyne, Rowan, and Estermont laughed too loudly about spoils and ironborn captives. The king announced a tourney to be thrown in honor of his victory, and another great cheer went up. Tywin Lannister looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon. His ever-present shadow, Ser Kevan, stood behind him; the two conferred briefly before Kevan stalked off.
Good. Let the Lannister bastards count their gold, Artys thought as he poured Arbor Gold for the king. Robert clapped him on the shoulder with a grin that reeked of roast boar and alcohol.
"You serve well for one so young," the king said. "Your father's trained you in more than letters and manners."
"He trains himself, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said mildly. "The boy sets his own tasks before I can give them."
Robert snorted. "Then I'll set one for him now."
The table quieted. Even Lord Tywin looked up.
"In honor of this victory and the strength of my realm," Robert boomed, "I name Artys Arryn my royal squire. He'll attend me at court and in the yard. Seven hells, he may even teach my own son something of obedience."
A few lords chuckled. Some looked surprised. Jon Arryn only inclined his head, though Artys saw the flicker of pride in his eyes. He knelt before the king.
"I am your man, Your Grace."
"Good lad," Robert said, waving for more wine. "You'll ride with me to King's Landing when the feasting and the tourney are done, and we'll put a proper sword in your hand."
Before the cheering had even settled, another voice rose at the table.
"A raven came from King's Landing this morning," Hoster Tully announced. "Your wife has been delivered of a son, my lord Hand. Strong and hale."
Jon Arryn froze mid-breath. For one heartbeat, the years dropped from his face.
"A son?" he repeated, as if the word might vanish.
"Your heir has a brother," Hoster said, thumping his cup. "The gods were merciful."
Ned Stark lifted his drink. Others followed. Even Tywin gave a curt nod.
Robert slapped Jon's back so hard the cups rattled. "Another boy! The Vale will have Arryns growing out of the stones if you keep at it."
"What's his name?" Ned asked.
"Robert," Jon said quietly. "In your honor, Your Grace."
Robert laughed and raised his cup high. "To young Robert Arryn! May he be strong and leal as his father!"
The hall roared its approval.
Artys drank a mouthful of watered wine in silence, his thoughts tangled. A brother. A trueborn Arryn—not a stillbirth. He felt happy for his mother; she would have someone else to coddle now. It changed things—inheritance, expectations, alliances. Not a threat, but a new variable.
He'd adjust. Now he was the king's squire. That meant he could participate. He was eight—too young for the melee or the joust—but the archery contest…
He grinned. He was sure Lord Lannister's pride would not allow him to make the purses small. He would want to display the wealth of Casterly Rock for the realm to see. I'll take your coin with pleasure, he thought.
Lannisport sang and toasted the defeat of the krakens.
Inside, Artys stood among the lords of the realm—the king's new squire, with a brother just born and the war still fresh on his boots. The tourney would be soon. He would win the archery contest for certain. No point hiding his strength constantly