The morning air was sharp and cool over Riverrun, the river forks gleaming silver beneath a rising sun. The clatter of swords and armor echoed across the courtyard, and the clang of steel on steel could be heard around the castle. Knights, squires, and lords were sparring and training, riding at quintains. The hall had been full of laughter and wine only the night before; now the only sounds were leather boots on cobblestones, the hiss of steel, and grunts of exertion.
Artys stood in the center of the yard, clad in a sky-blue brigandine bearing the silver falcon of House Arryn. His hair caught the light, a pale banner in the sun, and the tourney sword in his hand felt natural, an extension of his arm. Around him, Ser Harrick, Ser Robar Royce, and Ser Shadrich observed quietly.
Ser Edmure Tully approached first, broad-shouldered and auburn-haired, his blade gleaming. Beside him stood Patrek Mallister, young and wiry, and two other heirs to Riverlands houses readying themselves. They had come to measure themselves against the famed squire. Curiosity and pride mingled in their eyes; they wanted to see if the Demon's squire was truly more than rumor.
"Let us see what you have learned, nephew," Edmure said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority.
"Uncle, I have been crossing swords with Ser Barristan since I was six. I fear this will hardly be a challenge," Artys replied, lowering his blade in a respectful bow.
"Squires must never be this bold. I will teach you, nephew," Edmure said with a glint in his eyes.
"Let us make things interesting, uncle. I wager fifty dragons! Do I have any takers?"
Gales of laughter swept the courtyard.
"Aye, I will take it," said Marq Piper.
"Me as well," said Ser Patrek Mallister of Seagard.
Tytos Blackwood looked at him intensely. Artys smiled.
"What is it, Lord Blackwood? Do you not trust the skill at arms of your future liege?"
"No, my lord, I did not want to deprive you of your gold," he said with a grin.
"Fear not, my lord. Gold I have aplenty. My tourney winnings have been generous."
"This is not archery, nephew, as you will soon find out," said Edmure, and charged with shield and tourney sword.
Edmure swung first, aiming for his head. Artys parried and landed a kick on his uncle's shield, sending him stumbling back. By the time Edmure regained his footing, Artys was on the attack with a ferocious flurry of strikes. Edmure's wrists ached from deflecting the blows that seemed to come from everywhere.
He will tire soon. I just need to endure and then go on the offensive, Edmure thought.
But there was no respite. Then, out of nowhere, Artys feinted low and slammed his sword into Edmure's helm, ringing his head like a bell. Artys' heavy oaken shield crashed into the disoriented Edmure, sending him to the floor.
"Do you yield, ser?"
Edmure looked furious but then sighed and gave a rueful chuckle. "Bested by a squire," he mumbled.
"The king's squire," Artys corrected with a smug grin.
Ser Patrek Mallister and Marq Piper followed. Artys dispatched them quicker than he had his uncle—he did not want Edmure to lose too much face in front of his future bannermen.
"You have grown into a fearsome fighter," Edmure said, voice steady. "The tales of your skill… they are true, though I dare say, even understated."
After battering everyone in the yard, Artys took his leave to bathe. Though their egos were bruised, the Riverlords seemed to take it in stride and appeared to develop respect for Artys.
Harrick and Robar Royce watched with mild nods, approving, while Shadrich leaned lightly on his sword, silent as a shadow. Only he knew all this was nothing but a mummer's show.
Artys spent the nights reading in Riverrun's library about House Mudd and the other First Men houses, and of the Blackwoods. He wanted to know all he could about skinchangers, wargs, and greenseers. The days were spent hunting with Edmure and his merry band of Riverlords. His uncle was popular with both his smallfolk and his fellow lords.
I should win my own lords over—that means drinking, hunting, and hawking together to build bonds, Artys thought.
When the day of departure came, Lord Hoster insisted that Edmure accompany Artys and his company to the Crossroads Inn, from where the road to the Bloody Gate began.
Artys' party had departed from Riverrun a week ago, with thirty more riders and with Uncle Edmure, Patrek Mallister, and Marq Piper among them.
"Nephew, you are a stout sword, but you are yet a man. It is time we find a lady to teach you how to joust," Edmure said, draining his wineskin.
Marq and Patrek laughed, gesturing toward the Crossroads Inn.
Artys scoffed. "I assure you, uncle, I have learned more than enough jousting from observing the king."
The party laughed as they entered the Crossroads Inn.