296 AC
Artys had spent the night drinking with Thoros of Myr, trying to squeeze every bit of knowledge about Myr and the Free Cities out of the fat red priest. Thoros, as ever, was loose of tongue once the wine flowed. By dawn, Artys knew more of the Myrish ports, customs, and vices than any maester's book could tell him.
By the end of the night, Thoros had agreed to come with them on the voyage. "For the sake of R'hllor, I shall accompany you on this mission," the priest had said with a grin. "I ask only to be paid in wine."
Now, as sunlight crept through the high windows, Artys sat in his chambers reading from Maester Denys's crumbling tome, The Cities of the Triarchy. The book was nearly a hundred and fifty years old, its vellum pages yellowed and stiff, but the details mattered. Myr was not Westeros — the laws were different, the tongues foreign, and the nearest help thousands of leagues away. He needed to understand the ground before he set foot on it.
When his stomach finally demanded attention, he closed the book and made his way down to the Hand's Solar to break his fast. His mother and brother were already seated. His father, Jon Arryn, was spooning porridge with the absent-minded care of a man whose thoughts were elsewhere.
Artys sat beside them, grabbed some bacon and bread, and nodded a greeting.
"Must you go, Artys?" his mother asked — for what felt like the hundredth time that week.
"Yes, Mother," he said gently but firmly. "We're only buying glass, nothing more. If I'm wrong, then we'll have no cause for concern. But if I'm right…" He met his father's pale eyes. "If I'm right, I fear for the realm. I fear the winter to come."
Jon Arryn sighed and set his spoon down. "I do not like it. The seas are treacherous, even in summer."
"With respect, Father, the Narrow Sea isn't so wild this time of year," Artys said. "The Braavosi and Lyseni cross it daily. We'll have Drennyr's ship, the Sea Strider. She's fast and crewed by men who've done this all their lives."
Jon's mouth tightened. "You speak as if the gods can't drown sailors with experience."
"Experience can't stop storms," Artys said. "But it helps you survive them."
His mother frowned. "You've your father's stubbornness."
Artys smiled faintly. "I learned it from him."
Jon gave a weary chuckle. "A son's defiance disguised as flattery. You'll make a fine lord yet." He pushed his bowl aside. "Very well. Go, if you must. But take care. The Vale needs its heir, and I need my son back alive."
"I will, Father."
Artys rose, kissed his mother's cheek, and left the solar. The day was already warming, the sea wind drifting faintly through the castle's high windows.
He went down the steps of the Tower of the Hand. Ser Shaddrich said, "My lord, the smith is waiting for you."
Tobho Mott was waiting in the reception area with three apprentices. "My lord, let me once again thank you for your patronage. We are honored to be able to arm such a formidable knight."
Artys nodded. "Show me the polearm. Let me see what a smith of Qohor can do."
Tobho Mott smiled. "It weighs near five stone, my lord. I have balanced it to perfection, but I doubt even the Mountain could fight with it for any length of time."
"I will manage."
The smith gulped and said nothing more, commanding the apprentices to bring the weapon. Artys was surprised when he saw a boy about his age — tall, though not as tall as him, with the muscles of a blacksmith. For a moment, he thought it was Renly, but no. Artys studied the boy's face; the boy grew nervous. He was so distracted that he did not see Tobho Mott unveiling the polearm until the smith cleared his throat.
"My lord," Tobho said.
Artys snapped back to reality.
It was a polearm of deadly balance — nearly eight feet from butt to spike, its haft made of dark ash wood banded with steel rings for reinforcement. At the top rose a steel spike, long and narrow, forged to punch through mail and helm alike.
To one side jutted a crescent axe-blade, its edge keen enough to bite through plate at the joint or shear a man's arm clean off. On the opposite side, counterbalancing the axe, sat a square-headed hammer, ridged and heavy — made for crushing armor and splintering bone beneath.
The butt end was capped with a steel ferrule, pointed enough to serve as a second weapon if the polearm were reversed in close quarters. The steel was tinted with a bluish tinge, giving it a distinctly Arryn feel. Every inch of the weapon was built for versatility: to stab, cleave, crush, and thrust — a knight's tool for killing men in armor. The staff was banded with steel rings, and the grip was ornately decorated with a falcon crest, wrapped in soft, supple doe skin dyed blue. Artys wielded and twirled it around like it was spear not a heavy poleaxe lesser men barely be able to lift much less fight in .
Tobho Mott was shocked by how easily Artys lifted the weapon. Artys began to swing with deadly precision and speed — sixty pounds of steel thrummed through the air with lethal intent. Artys would have a kill radius of eight to twelve feet, and moving at speeds faster than most men could think, he could cut through entire battle formations single-handedly.
"Master Mott, I am pleased. And the half plate and gambesons I requested?"
"Of course, my lord," the smith replied as he unveiled them. The gambesons were plain grey, and the half armor tinted silvery-blue, with riveted chainmail byrnie for him and the knights, black as ink, and a pair of special gauntlets for himself with maximum flexibility for his fingers. None bore any sigils, as he had commanded. He wanted plausible deniability if something were to happen and they had to cut their way back to the harbor.
"You have exceeded my expectations, Master Mott," Artys said. The man bowed deeply, accepting his gold with a generous bonus.
"You," Artys said, pointing at the lad who looked very much a Baratheon. "What is your name?" he asked.
Artys noticed Master Mott's face go pale.
"Gendry, milord," the boy said.
"What did you make, Gendry?" Artys asked, gesturing to the weapons and armor.
"I made the chainmail byrnie, milord. I'm still only an apprentice."
Artys studied him for a moment, then smiled. "Good work. When you finish your apprenticeship, seek me out. I'm sure I can find a place for you in my household."
He flicked a gold dragon to the boy, who caught it and looked at it in awe.
"Thank the lord, stupid boy," Master Mott hissed.
Gendry bowed. "Many thanks, milord."
Artys handed Master Mott a rolled parchment. It contained the design for a new set of tourney armor — based on a vision from his past life, something like Griffith's from an old dream. Falcons and hawks are similar enough, he thought.
"Think on some designs," Artys said. "When I return, we'll take measurements and begin the work."
"Of course, my lord," Master Mott said, bowing low. He and his apprentices gathered their tools and took their leave.
Artys was walking in the godswood with Ser Robar.
"You have my thanks, Artys. I will prove worthy of Lord Arryn's trust," Robar said, his chest puffed up with pride.
"I have no doubt," Artys replied with a smile. "But Robar, the capital is not the Vale. Honor and duty are as alien to them as they are dear to us. In time, there will be those who will try to buy your loyalty."
He saw Robar's face flush red, the knight opening his mouth to protest, but Artys silenced him with a raised hand.
"Take the gold and the women they offer," Artys said calmly. "Fix the Watch as best you can, with leal men — men from the Vale if possible, or the Riverlands if you must. Play the game. There will come a time when Lord Arryn and I will have sore need of you. And I know I can trust you to do the right thing."
"Aye," Robar said with firm conviction.