Half the court had come to Lannisport for the tourney. The harbor teemed with banners and sails, every dock crammed with ships from the Reach, the Stormlands, the Westerlands, even the North. The smallfolk filled the streets, gawking at lords and ladies as though they were mummers on parade.
Artys carried the bow his mother had gifted him on his seventh name day—a goldenheart longbow polished smooth as glass. She'd likely hoped he would take to archery instead of swords and lances. The draw was near one hundred and eighty pounds. The fletcher who'd shaped it had muttered that no grown man could pull such weight, let alone a boy, but he'd done the work all the same. Only Ser Harrick had the barest notion of Artys' strength and skill, and even he chalked it up to good blood or the Seven's favor.
The king and his father stood with Lord Tywin when Artys was brought before them. Ser Barristan and Ser Mandon let him pass, though Ser Harrick had to wait outside the tent.
"Your Grace. My lords." Artys bowed. "I beg leave to enter the archery contest."
Robert laughed through his beard. "Hungry for glory already, are we?"
Tywin Lannister only watched him, measuring him with those pale green eyes.
Jon Arryn gave a small nod. "If it's your wish, you have my leave."
"It is," Artys said. "I'll bring honor to our house."
As he turned to go, he paused by Ser Barristan. "I'll be wagering on your victory, ser. Ride well."
The old knight gave a faint, amused smile. "Best not wager coin you don't have, my lord."
Artys only grinned and left the tent.
Outside, he pressed a purse into Ser Harrick's hand. "A hundred dragons. Wager eighty on me to win the archery and twenty on Ser Barristan to win the joust."
Ser Harrick frowned. "This is folly."
"Have no fear," Artys said, wearing the cockiest grin he could manage. "I don't miss."
The knight muttered something under his breath, but went all the same.
Artys made for the butts to warm his muscles. He strung the goldenheart bow and loosed shaft after shaft into the straw men. His fingers worked the string like he'd been born to it. Ten arrows a minute, near enough, and he could keep the pace an hour before the string began to fray. The other archers paused to watched with awe as he shot arrow after arrow with fluid movement and not even taking a second to aim .
The horn blow signaled the beginning of contest.
At first, no one paid him mind. Too well-dressed, too smooth-faced, too young to matter. That changed quickly.
By the time his thirtieth arrow thudded home, half the range had gone quiet. Men who'd come to win turned to watch him shoot—archers from the Reach in green and gold, Stormlanders in ringmail, hedge knights with dust still on their cloaks. Some frowned as though trying to puzzle out the sorcery. Others simply stared.
"That's the Hand's son, isn't it?" a Reachman muttered.
"Aye," said a Westerlander next to him. "The king's squire now, they say."
"He's what—twelve?" another guessed.
"Twelve and drawing a bow like that?" someone else said. "Seven hells."
Three men in particular watched him more intently than the rest.
Ser Cedric Blackwood—narrow-faced, long-haired, the raventree worked in black upon his brigandine—tested the pull of his own ash bow while studying Artys with flinty eyes.
To his left stood Lord Benedict Dondarrion's bastard son—a dark-haired, rangy man with violet eyes and a Dornish-curved bow resting lightly in his hand. He watched Artys the way a man watches a storm on the horizon.
Closer to the lists stood Ser Lyle Oakheart of Old Oak, a Marcher lord's second son. His yew bow gleamed, polished within an inch of pride. His jaw clenched each time one of Artys's shafts struck dead center.
It Artys stood out amongst his fellow competitors a bright eyed boy surrounded by grizzled veteran knights there was a pimply young squires smattered here and there but even the youngest was twice his age . It took a life time of practice to draw war bow and a lot of blood and sweat to master it .
A horn sounded across the list field, long and low.
Artys unstrung his bow only long enough to check the limbs, then stepped toward the shooting line with the others.
Whispers followed in his wake.
"That's Arryn's boy?"
"He's tall for twelve."
"Is that a golden heart bow . That's no plaything."
From the royal platform, King Robert sat laughing with Tywin Lannister and Jon Arryn. The stags, lions, trout, and falcons of their banners flapped behind them in the salt wind off the harbor.
Another horn blast cut through the noise, and the master-at-arms strode forward to call the rules. Three rounds. Each farther than the last. Twenty bowmen to start. Only five would advance.
Artys nocked his first arrow.
Cedric Blackwood did the same. Oakheart rolled his shoulders and said nothing. The Dondarrion bastard kissed his string like a septon kissing a relic.
The line went silent.
The contest began.
Artys squinted downrange, the bright morning sun bouncing off the polished bows and armor of the other archers. The crowd was thick around the range, whispers and murmurs rolling through the spectators. He is only twelve, they kept saying, eyes widening as the boy in the sky-blue doublet nocked arrow after arrow without hesitation. Only Ser Harrick, waiting at the sidelines, seemed unsurprised.
The first of the four—Lord Oakheart, marcher lord, tall and broad, with a bow that had taken more than one man to string properly—stepped forward. His aim was methodical, his arrows clean, precise. But the boy with the golden heart bow loosed shafts at a pace Oakheart could not hope to match. The second, Dondarrion, blue-eyed and sharp, seemed faster than Oakheart but had to pause to breathe after four volleys. The third, Blackwood, knelt with a bow carved from weirwood, shooting slowly but devastatingly accurate, every arrow finding the faint mark at the center of the straw man.
Jon Arryn watched from the stands with while Robert put an arm around jon " your boy is winning ". He could see the glint in Artys's blue eyes as the boy scanned the targets, tracking Blackwood's arrow through the air, noting the split-second of deflection, and adjusting his own aim instinctively.
The final four were more challenging than anything Artys had faced in the practice yard. Oakheart's arrow broke the target on his third shot. Dondarrion's fourth pierced just outside the center. Blackwood's weirwood bow gave him slight advantage in precision, though it was slow to reload. Artys ignored the chatter, ignored the murmurs about his youth, and let his hands and instincts take over. He moved through the final volley as he had every other: unerring, fast, and precise, hitting four targets in rapid succession that others would have spent a minute lining up.
Jon Arryn's eyes narrowed slightly praying to the seven his heart swelling with pride even coming this far was miracle from the seven he thought. Jon had heard of artys skill with a bow from ser harrick but he assumed it was something good for a boy his age he did not imagine it to be so formidable .
The horn blew. The contest ended. Blackwood, Oakheart, and Dondarrion had performed admirably, but the score was clear. Artys had claimed the center of the target more consistently than all three combined. The hall erupted with murmurs, then cheers, then disbelief.
"Your Grace," Jon said quietly, his hand resting on the boy's shoulder. "Your squire… my son… he has bested men who are thrice his age."
King Robert leaned forward, grinning, clapping his massive hands together. "Seven hells! Look at him, Jon! He has barely started as my squire and he is already doing us proud! Give him the prize!"
The king hesitated, eyes gleaming, then added, "And my favourite hawk has laid a clutch—let the boy have one for his own."
"Your Grace is kind," Jon said cautiously.
"I will have none of that, Jon!" Robert boomed, slapping the table with a hand that rattled the goblets. "He deserves it , and I will see it done. Let him learn how to train a bird ".
Artys's chest tightened with excitement. A hawk of the king's own! His fingers itched to hold the creature, to train it, to see it swoop on command. He inclined his head deeply, hiding a grin. "Your Grace honors me beyond words. I will care for it well."
Robert roared with laughter, slapping Artys on the back so hard it almost knocked the boy forward. "That's the spirit! Your are my squire now I'll have you hunting like real man before your next name day, mark my words!"
Jon Arryn only shook his head with quiet amusement, his pride for his son shining in his eyes. Artys had just claimed not only victory in the archery contest but also a gift from the king himself—a tangible reminder that he was already being noticed in a court.
Artys, bow still in hand, gave a small, controlled bow. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the thrill that surged through him. The gold purse—five thousand dragons—was awarded. Artys took a few hundred dragons for himself and commanded the rest to be taken to the bank, Hightower, in Lannisport. The House of Hightower had the largest bank native to Westeros, with outlets in all five major cities and ten towns across the continent. He used his father's name to purchase some of the captured Greyjoy longships for himself. He planned to have them sailed to King's Landing to be crewed, then sent on to Gulltown. He should have asked his father before using his name, but he knew Jon Arryn would understand. People moved like they had been cracked by a whip when they heard the Lord Hand had ordered something.
"This tourney is a chance to expand my reach and build my own retinue," he thought. He made his way toward his erstwhile competitors. Oakheart approached and extended his hand. "You shoot… well, my lord," he said respectfully. Dondarrion's piercing blue eyes lingered on Artys a moment longer than polite. "Perhaps I underestimated you," he admitted quietly. Blackwood's lips pressed into a thin line, but there was the faintest nod.
"I would have been surprised if I had not," Artys said with good cheer. "My father, the Lord Hand, is always on the lookout for men of talent. I would like it if the three of you would swear yourselves to the service of my house. You will have a place of honor in my hearth, and I shall not demand any service that would bring dishonor upon you."
"Forgive me, my lord," the knight of Blackwood said, "I have a place in my uncle's castle. I must decline." Oakheart had already been recruited by House Rowan. The bastard of Blackhaven looked at him for a moment, then said, "I would like to earn a knighthood as well," the boy was in his late teens.
"Done," Artys said, "and I shall have full plate armor commissioned as a token of my gratitude." Steffon Storm's eyes widened, then he thanked Artys profusely and retreated to his tent to pack his belongings.
Jon Arryn caught Artys by the shoulder as the boy turned back toward him. "Your work today will be remembered. But remember this—skill with bow or sword is not enough. You must temper it with judgment, always."
Artys nodded. "I understand, Father."
He made his way to the feast and found Ser Jaime Lannister blocking his path. Her Grace the Princess appeared from behind him. "You shot well, Artys," she said with a bright smile. Mrycella was dressed like a doll, her gown green silk, her blonde hair curled in ringlets shining like beaten gold.
"My princess, you are most kind," Artys smiled. "Would you like to join Cerella and me? We are going to play Come Into My Castle."
"Forgive me, Cella, I must decline," he said. "I have to attend to the king; I am his squire now. But once we return to King's Landing, I would love to tell you some tales over supper—the tale of Aragorn and Princess Arwen, you always liked that one."
"I want two tales! And the one about the Jade Princess of YiTi!" his princess bid him, and he kissed Mrycella's little hand. She giggled and left with a gaggle of girls, some of whom fluttered their eyelashes at him.
Damn, is this how jocks must feel? Artys thought.
In his previous life, he'd had below-average looks and above-average height. The pimples that plagued him through his teenage years had stripped away what little confidence he'd had with the fairer sex.
Artys was about to take his leave when a strong hand grasped his shoulder. "I must say, well shot, lad, but I have never much liked archers—cowards, the lot of them," said Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer. Calling him a coward. Artys bit his tongue, smiled, and said, "All weapons have their uses, Ser, and I am sure my bow will serve me well when hunting with the king."
"Warrior be with you in the lists, Ser," Artys added, his voice betraying none of the malice he felt. Jaime Lannister kept walking, saying, "I don't need the warrior's help to best the likes of these," gesturing at Ser Harrick.
"Arrogant whore's son," he heard Ser Harrick mutter behind him.
"That," a voice said from behind Ser Harrick, "is true." Startled, Harrick turned, and Artys saw a dwarf, his head misshapen with a jutting brow and pale blonde hair reaching his shoulders, waddling toward them with a wine glass in his hand.
"Although I would take offense to you calling my lady mother a whore," the dwarf said, "I am Tyrion Lannister, second son of Tywin Lannister