Rob Stark POV
"I think I can see the banners!" Theon exclaimed.
Robb and Theon, with twenty riders, had gone to greet Lord Artys Arryn and Princess Myrcella, who were arriving with their retinue at Winterfell. Robb had heard much about his cousin—they were born only moons apart at Riverrun and were of an age together. But his cousin was already spoken of as the Fighting Falcon, the youngest knight since Daemon Blackfyre, said to have bested Barristan the Bold and the Kingslayer in tourneys, and to have shattered the mountain clans. Robb had even heard a song of the Fighting Falcon from a passing bard. His cousin must be a great warrior, though he doubted anyone could kill two dozen men in mere minutes.
Artys had always sent ravens and nameday gifts, and even Lord Eddard had told him that, at seven—the last time he'd seen him—Artys was a bold, bright boy. Theon, however, was less complimentary.
The Arryn banners were now clear, alongside the Manderley knights riding with them to escort the royal couple to Winterfell. The king's party, by contrast, was still crossing the Neck and would take nearly a moon to arrive. Artys had come swiftly, traveling by ship.
"That must be him," Theon said, pointing at the rider leading the retinue.
Robb discerned a tall, broad-shouldered figure leading the retinue, wearing a falcon-shaped helm and armor of silvered steel that glimmered in the summer sun. A sky-blue cloak, clasped with gold, hung from his shoulders. Robb Stark dismounted and stood beside the banner, with Hullen holding the Stark direwolf and Jory Cassel at his left. The retinue drew up before Winterfell's honor guard. The leader removed his helm, handed it to a knight, and walked toward Robb. He was a head and a half taller than Robb, with golden hair, sky-blue eyes, and an easy smile that only sharpened his handsome features.
Robb bowed slightly. "Lord Arryn, well met."
"None of that," said the Lord of the Eyrie, pulling him into a hug. "'Tis good to see you, coz." He grinned.
Robb, surprised but pleased, answered courteously, "I hope your journey has been pleasant so far."
"Snow in the summer," the Lord of the Eyrie said with a shudder. "I scarcely dare imagine what winter must be like." He studied Robb for a heartbeat. "You look much like our uncle Edmure." Then his gaze slid to Theon. Robb saw apprehension flicker in Theon's eyes, but Artys only smiled. "'Tis good to see you again under better circumstances, Theon."
Theon's eyes widened; his characteristic smirk faded, replaced by a cautious smile.
A fine grey gelding followed behind them, and Robb saw one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever laid eyes on—curly blonde hair to her shoulders, emerald eyes, and a gentle smile. The princess of the Seven Kingdoms, he thought. Myrcella Baratheon began to dismount, but Artys lifted her lightly by the waist and set her on the ground. The princess patted her husband's shoulder, then offered her hand to Robb. He knelt and kissed it; Theon did the same.
"We're a half-day's ride from Winterfell," Robb said as he mounted.
"Then let us ride and speak," his cousin replied. "I've much and more to discuss with you."
Robb grinned. "I hear you bested Ser Barristan the Bold in the last tourney."
Artys smiled. "Three lances. The knight still has plenty of fight in him, better than most half his age."
They rode together as Winterfell's towers rose over the horizon.
Brandon Stark — POV
The retinue from the Vale rode through Winterfell's gates, their armor glinting in the summer sun. Brandon was excited; with the king's party still three weeks away, the castle was abuzz preparing to host His Grace. His cousin—the one they'd heard so much about—entered the yard on a white gelding, looking like a knight from the songs Sansa loved.
The entire Stark family gathered in the courtyard to greet their cousin and his wife, the princess. Summer trotted behind Bran as he clambered down the wall to join them. Mother was fussing over Arya's hair as she fidgeted in her dress, while Jeyne Poole and Sansa giggled at his wild sister's antics. His half brother Jon was behind towards the edge spying on the whole affair with muted curiousity as a bastard he was not permitted in the prescesnce of a high lord and a princess much less one who was of Tully blood.
Artys Arryn swung off the saddle, removing his helmet. Bran heard Sansa gasp as she saw the handsome knight clad in silvered steel. Artys walked toward Father with long, confident strides. Bran could hardly believe he was of an age with Robb—he looked a head taller than Father.
Lord Stark's usually reserved demeanor cracked a little as he smiled at his nephew. Both men gave each other a slight bow, and Bran saw Father extend an arm to clasp—but Lord Arryn pushed it aside and embraced him instead.
"Nuncle," Artys said, with a smile bright as the sun.
Father looked briefly taken aback by the familiarity, then returned the hug.
Mother smiled and embraced Artys. "We are very sorry for your loss," she said.
Artys's face sobered. "The whole realm mourns him, Aunt Catelyn" he said, gesturing toward Father. "He was Lord Stark's father as much as he was mine. ." As they spoke, a beautiful girl in a sable cloak trimmed with white fox fur rode up on a grey gelding. Robb offered his hand to help her down. Bran assumed this must be the new Lady of the Vale—Princess Myrcella. Father kissed her hand, while Mother, Sansa, and Jeyne curtsied gracefully. Arya… less so. They adjourned to their quarters as they were to rest before dinner.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was empty save for the Starks and the Arryn couple. A modest dinner was laid, as Father judged the guests too tired from their long journey for a feast. Bran sat with Rickon to his left and Arya to his right. Artys Arryn sat opposite him, with Princess Myrcella to his left and Lord Stark to his right. Sansa took a seat beside Princess Myrcella, with Alysanne Lefford to her right and Catelyn Stark to her left. The meal began with a toast to King Robert, and then the conversation began to flow as the food did . Silver platters steamed on the board: roast aurochs haunch lacquered with honey and juniper; whole cod stuffed with lemon and dill; spiced lamprey pies rich with butter and mace; trencher-cut swan with a glaze of dark cherries; boar sausages split and hissing over caramelized onions; turnips bathed in cream; buttered parsnips with nutmeg; cloud-soft mash swimming in drippings; oat-and-barley loaves still warm; wheels of sharp goat's cheese; figs in syrup; baked apples bursting with cinnamon. Flagons of Arbor gold and dark Dornish red stood beside Winter Town mead and hot hippocras perfumed with clove and orange.
The talk began quiet—roads, weather—until Bran blurted, "Is it true you unhorsed Ser Barristan in three lances?"
"Two clean breaks and one I'll call luck," Artys said, smiling. "He's quicker than men half his age. Don't wager against him unless you enjoy losing coin."
"Modesty doesn't suit you, husband," Myrcella teased with a giggle. "Ser Artys crowned me Queen of Love and Beauty three years ago in Lannisport—as a mystery knight—and he's defended my crown ever since. He is undefeated."
"How gallant," Sansa breathed, eyes shining.
"Even a hedge knight might win with my princess's favor tied to his arm," Artys said with a charming grin, leaning to brush a kiss against Myrcella's golden curls.
"You may stop your flattery, ser—we're already wed," Myrcella said, amused, rolling her emerald eyes. Laughter circled the table; Sansa's smile pinched with a hint of envy.
"Does that mean you're the greatest knight in the realm now?" Bran asked, eager.
Artys's smile softened "I have had good luck in the lists and had my share of skirmishes with the mountain clansman, It takes more than a good sword arm to make a knight". "Do you want to be a knight Bran ?"
Artys glanced to Lord Stark. Ned hesitated; Bran met his father's eyes, pleading. At length, Ned gave a small nod.
Artys smiled. "Well—if your father permits. But know this: the Vale is a hard country. Shadowcats, mountain clans, cruel passes. There are no summer knights in the Vale—only the bravest. "I wont shame you" Bran said with conviction.
Artys smiled. "Well—if your father permits. But know this: the Vale is a hard country. Shadowcats, mountain clans, cruel passes. There are no summer knights in the Vale—only the bravest."
"I can be brave" Bran said with conviction.
"You won't start by squiring tomorrow," Artys said gently. "You're young yet. We'll begin with lessons here: footwork, falling, balance, reading maps, caring for tack and steel. When you're older, you'll come to the Eyrie. And perhaps I'll tell you of all the mischief your lord father and the king got up to."
The entire table chuckled; even his father gave a small smile.