In Westeros, it had long been customary for noble houses to send their children to be raised by other noble families of equal standing.
This tradition, known as fostering, served multiple purposes. It strengthened alliances, cultivated loyalty, and ensured proper education and discipline. In most cases, it was an honor—an expression of trust between houses.
Of course, there were exceptions.
Theon Greyjoy, for instance, had been sent to Winterfell not as a foster son, but as a hostage.
Yet in the majority of cases, fostering symbolized friendship rather than coercion.
One of the most famous examples was Robert Baratheon.
When Lord Steffon Baratheon sent his eldest son to be fostered by Jon Arryn of the Vale, it was not merely a political move. Steffon admired Jon Arryn deeply—his character, his wisdom, his honor—and believed Robert would grow into a better man under his guidance.
To entrust one's heir to another house was no small matter.
Robert Baratheon was the future Lord of Storm's End, heir to the Stormlands. Sending him away was a declaration of absolute trust. Jon Arryn understood this clearly.
If Robert ever faced danger, Jon Arryn would stand for him without hesitation. Likewise, Robert would one day return that loyalty tenfold.
History proved the strength of such bonds.
During Robert's Rebellion, the Eagle, the Wolf, and the Stag stood united. Even after Robert ascended the Iron Throne, he appointed Jon Arryn as Hand of the King, ruling beside him with rare harmony.
Another example came later.
Before his death, Jon Arryn had planned to send his frail son, Robert Arryn, to Dragonstone to be fostered by Stannis Baratheon. Jon believed Stannis's strict nature would temper the boy's weakness.
Though that plan never came to pass, it spoke volumes of the trust Jon Arryn placed in Stannis.
Fostering was the quiet backbone of Westerosi politics.
Robert Baratheon had been sent to the Eyrie at the age of eight.
Seven years had passed.
This year, Robert was fifteen.
Standing on the docks of Sapphire Harbor, Garon Tarth watched the approaching ship bearing the sigil of House Arryn and felt a twinge of regret.
If he had been three or four years older, perhaps his father could have sent him to the Eyrie as well. The heir to Tarth would have been a worthy foster son.
Then there would have been three of them—Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, and himself.
The Three Musketeers of the future rebellion.
But it was nothing more than idle fantasy. Garon was four years younger than Ned and five years younger than Robert. Even if he had gone to the Vale, their worlds would not have aligned.
Robert was likely already drinking, fighting, and chasing girls.
"Brother, are we going to Storm's End tomorrow?"
Brienne's voice pulled Garon from his thoughts.
She was six years old now, far taller than before. Though still a child, her height already rivaled that of older children.
Today she wore a pale green linen skirt, a white scarf tied at her neck, and a simple cord at her waist. She looked gentle and obedient—yet beneath the fabric, her strong build was already evident.
Garon himself had grown considerably.
At ten years old, he stood nearly five feet four inches tall. In a few more years, he would likely surpass six feet with ease.
Unlike Brienne, however, his build was lean rather than thick.
He wore a dark gray linen shirt, a fitted black cloak, and slim trousers, with the Maiden of Justice strapped across his back. He looked both sharp and composed, carrying himself with quiet confidence.
Placing a hand on Brienne's shoulder, Garon smiled.
"Do you want to go?"
"Yes!" she answered instantly, blue eyes sparkling.
She had heard countless stories of Storm's End from Maester Ronnel and was eager to see the legendary fortress built by Brandon the Builder.
"Then Father will take us tomorrow," Garon said.
As they spoke, the Arryn ship drew closer. Two figures stood at the bow.
One tall and broad, black-haired and imposing.
Robert Baratheon.
Garon narrowed his eyes.
Robert's combat prowess was terrifying—even more so before wine and indulgence dulled his edge. Among the Seven Kingdoms, few could match him.
Perhaps only Ser Arthur Dayne.
Even Rhaegar Targaryen, tournament champion of Lannisport, had fallen beneath Robert's warhammer.
"But I'll surpass him," Garon murmured.
He summoned his status panel.
Name: Garon TarthTitle: None
Strength: 8.76Agility: 8.90Spirit: 15.3Magic: 0
Skills:Swordsmanship: 21Archery: 33Horsemanship: 19Common Tongue: 41Swimming: 40High Valyrian: 19
Legendary Bloodlines:Duskstar Bloodline (Development 5)Targaryen Bloodline (Development 1)Storm King Bloodline (Development 1)
Legendary Weapon: Maiden of Justice (Gold, Maximum Quality)Judgment Points: 0
His strength and agility now bordered on that of an adult.
In real combat, he was already comparable to a seasoned soldier.
This growth came not only from relentless training, but from judgment—executing criminals under the law of Tarth.
Over the past two years, Garon had personally carried out the sentences of nearly a hundred criminals.
His spirit had grown as well, sharpening his memory and reaction speed.
Even Ser Goodwin, the finest swordsman on Tarth, could no longer strike him within thirty exchanges.
"Drop anchor!"
"Secure the ropes!"
The ship docked.
Two youths stepped forward.
One calm and reserved, brown-haired, solemn.
Eddard Stark.
The other tall, broad, black-haired, radiating arrogance and vitality.
Robert Baratheon.
"Lord Selwyn!" Robert called loudly. "It's been too long!"
"Robert," Selwyn replied warmly. "You've grown strong."
Robert leapt onto the dock with ease, drawing an approving nod from Selwyn.
"This is my brother Ned," Robert said. "Second son of Lord Stark."
Eddard bowed respectfully.
"An honor, my lord."
"Your father keeps well?" Selwyn asked.
"He does," Ned replied calmly.
Garon stepped forward.
"Robert. Long time."
Robert laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, eyes immediately drifting to the sword on Garon's back.
"So that's the holy sword?"
"We'll talk after lunch," Garon said dryly.
Selwyn nodded.
And so, together, they rode toward Evenfall Hall—where legends, friendships, and futures quietly converged.