298AC
Jon Snow POV
Jon was looking down from the battlements as Artys Arryn battered Jory Cassel, Rodrik Cassel, and Robb at the same time. Jon had never seen anything like it. The Fighting Falcon didn't even bother with a shield—just casually swatting away their tourney swords as if they were pages. He kicked their shields to create distance before landing blow after blow to their legs and shoulders. The men would have died a dozen deaths had they been fighting with live steel.
Jon felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find a tall, lanky boy around his own age.
"Lord Jon Snow?" the boy asked, hoping he had the right person.
"Aye," Jon said—though he was no lord.
"My lord wants you to join us," said the boy with the raven brooch—one of Lord Artys's squires, no doubt.
Jon's eyes widened. Why would a high lord like Artys Arryn want to suffer the presence of a bastard?
He followed the lanky squire down the stairs. The boy towered over him—almost as tall as Hodor—but all shins, ankles, and bones.
Jon reached the yard to find Robb, Jory, and Rodrik bruised, sweating, and limping toward a bench. Trestle tables had been set up with iced summerwine. A boy in Frey livery was handing his knight-master a cup. The Falcon Knight took a long sip. He doesn't even seem winded after hours of practice, Jon thought.
Lord Arryn clapped Robb on the back. "You fight well, Robb, but you are too predictable. The essence of swordplay is to set a rhythm—and break it. Should your enemy anticipate your attack, it will be the death of you."
Robb nodded solemnly, taking his cousin's words to heart.
Then Artys saw Jon. His sapphire-blue eyes locked onto Jon's grey ones, and he smiled.
"You must be Jon," he said warmly, extending his arm.
"Well met," Jon replied with a bow before clasping his arm.
"I wanted to meet my father's namesake," the lord said nonchalantly.
Ghost padded behind Jon. The young lord regarded the wolf curiously.
"You have a direwolf as well. An albino—how beautiful."
Jon's heart swelled with pride. "His name is Ghost."
"A fitting name," Artys said, smiling. "May I touch him?"
"Of course," Jon said. "Ghost, sit."
The pup sat, and Artys brought the back of his hand close for Ghost to sniff before scratching behind his ear.
"Get him a drink," he commanded the squires. They scurried off quickly. Jon found it amusing that the squires were older than their knight-master—yet no one thought it strange, given Artys's skill at arms.
"You have the Stark look," Artys said.
Jon didn't know what to say.
"Robb tells me you're the better sword between the two of you."
Robb nodded. "Aye, he is. Jon, get yourself a sword. Together we can have another go."
Artys barked a laugh. "I must have hit you too hard in the head, cousin—but I shan't deny you another beating if you're so willing. Theon, join in as well."
Theon looked as if he'd swallowed a lemon. The Greyjoy heir was not his usual cocky self around Artys.
Two hours later, Jon had never been so tired in his life. He had tried every attack, feint, and trick Ser Rodrik had taught him—yet to no avail. Robb and Theon were attacking alongside him, but Artys was nimble as a cat and strong as a bull. Every blow Jon managed to parry sent pain jolting through his wrists. Artys, however, didn't so much as flinch, fighting all three of them with his shield arm held behind his back.
Any misstep from any of them resulted in a trip, a kick, or a blunted sword smacking the offending limb.
"I've never seen someone kick or trip so much," Theon panted, sucking on a waterskin.
The Frey squire was unlacing Artys's gambeson as another brought him water.
"The goal is to incapacitate your enemy by any means—especially knights in armor," Artys said sagely. "If you're put on your back, you'll be taken for ransom if you're lucky—or you'll have a dirk through your visor. A knight in armor is essentially a turtle. Put him on his back, and you'll have him."
They made their way to the bathhouse, nursing their bruises and exchanging weary banter about the day's beating.
By the time they left the bathhouse, the worst of the aches had settled into a dull throb. Robb swaggered as if he hadn't been thrashed. Theon limped. Jon tried not to wince.
Artys, cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulder, seemed as fresh as dawn.
They made their way down to Wintertown, laughter echoing in the cold night air. The local inn was warm and smoky, filled with the smell of roasting mutton and spilled ale. The innkeep nearly dropped his ladle when he saw a high lords and the heir to Winterfell step through his door, but Artys only waved him off and paid for a whole cask of ale on the spot.
Soon they were drinking like brothers-in-arms. Robb was red-faced and trying not to vomit, Theon was boasting again, Artys was out drinking all of them and goading the others into drinking more yet Jon saw that Artys was not sober as a septon even after so many cups.
Jon wasn't sure how drunk he was. Only that everything felt brighter and bolder.
It was then that Artys leaned forward, eyes sharp as ever.
"Jon," he said quietly, "step outside with me."
Jon blinked, confused, but followed. The cold night hit him like a slap. Their breath steamed in the air. Ghost padded behind them, pale as frost.
Artys folded his arms and studied him—not unkindly, but intently.
"Tell me," he said, "what do you mean to do with yourself? Truly."
Jon swallowed. He'd never been asked so directly.
"I mean to take the black," he said. "Join the Night's Watch."
For a moment, Artys simply stared.
"You?" he said softly, as if the thought itself were madness. "A boy with your fire? Your talent?"
Jon shrugged helplessly. "I'm a bastard. There's no place for me here."
Artys shook his head vehemently.
"Nonsense. Bastard or no, you have the makings of a knight—and a fine one." His voice steadied, earnest and solemn. "Jon Snow, I would have you as my squire."
Jon felt his heart stop.
"My… my lord?"
"I will speak to Lord Stark" Artys went on, "and young Bran is to join my household as a page when he's old enough. A Stark in my halls is no small honor—but I would take you as well." He stepped closer, sapphire eyes gleaming. "Serve me. Train under me. Earn your spurs. Win your knighthood."
Jon couldn't breathe.
"You could be Kingsguard one day," Artys said, voice conspiratorial. "I swear it. I'll see you with a white cloak on your shoulders—if you want it. And know this: there is as much honor in a black cloak as in a white one… but don't throw your life to the Wall because you think it's all you deserve."
Jon staggered back as if struck. No one had ever spoken of him like that. No one had ever imagined a future for him—not a grand one, not any kind.
Ghost whined softly, sensing the turmoil in him.
"I…" Jon whispered. "I don't know."
Artys rested a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Think on it," he said. "Not as a bastard. Not as Ned Stark's shame. But as Jon. Just Jon." His voice softened. "The world is larger than the Wall. it has stood for a thousand years you could always join it after if you are still inclined to"
Through the inn's window came Robb's laughter, muffled and distant.
For the first time in his life, Jon Snow felt the world widening—terrifying, impossible, full of choices he'd never imagined he had.
And somewhere deep inside, a spark caught flame.
Artys POV
One week later ******
"So—what have you learned?" Ser Shadrich asked.
"From what I've gathered from the men-at-arms and the castle servants," Shadrich reported, "the Starks are well loved in their lands. Lady Sansa has been trained by a septa—queer, for a noble lady of the North, much less a Stark. The Lady Catelyn despises the bastard and does not suffer his presence."
"Understandable," Artys murmured, gesturing for Shadrich to continue. "What about the wolves?"
Artys leaned forward, unable to hide his interest. There was something about those beasts—something he could feel. Were the Stark children skinchangers, as he was?
He had been shaken from the moment he first saw Robb Stark greeting him with what he thought was a dog—only for it to be revealed as a direwolf pup. A direwolf, once thought extinct. And not just one: six wolves for six Stark children.
Artys would have dismissed it as coincidence—once. But Melisandre had changed his view. Magic was not dead in the world. There were larger forces at play.
"My lord?" Shadrich said, snapping him from his stupor.
"Yes—continue."
"They speak of the wolves as blessings from the Old Gods," Shadrich said with a shrug. "Nothing I imagine your lordship would wish to waste time on—peasant drivel."
"I do," Artys said sharply. "And I want all information pertaining to the wolves. Every scrap."
Shadrich bowed his head. "As you command."
"And what of Brandon?" Artys asked. "The boy?"
"Well liked," Shadrich replied. "Gets up to mischief. Seems to love climbing."
Artys leaned back, thoughtful, a cold shiver running up his spine. Six wolves. Six children. Magic stirring in the North.
"The Ironborn lad—Theon," Shadrich continued. "He wenches and japes. Good with a bow, I am told, but not well liked."
"Ironborn are little loved anywhere," Artys responded. "And Robb?"
"The Stark heir is dutiful, from all I've heard. Just like his father, despite his Tully looks."
"And what of my uncle?" Artys asked.
"Lord Stark eats with his men—men-at-arms, blacksmiths, tradesmen. They're invited to sup with their lord in turns. Lord Stark is well loved."
Artys tapped his fingers thoughtfully. "What of the serving girls? Any gossip? Does Lord Stark have any…" He raised an eyebrow, the implication clear.
Shadrich caught on at once. "None that I've heard, my lord." He shook his head firmly.
Artys clicked his tongue, disappointed more in the lack of answers than the morality implied.
He was curious about Jon Snow's mother. Even the noblest lords were only human, and with the power they wielded—and the political nature of their marriages—most kept mistresses or whores to pass the time. Ned Stark's reputation, however, was stellar. Artys had to commend his uncle for that. Artys himself lacked that level of self-control—but even he did not have bastards. He made certain of it. Having a bastard potentially inheriting his powers would be catastrophic.
He had yet to broach the topic of Jon Snow with his uncle. Ned Stark seemed to like the boy, despite his stoic outward manner. Artys needed to secure Jon Snow—Jon would be a useful addition to his house.
Benjen Stark was soon to reach Winterfell—someone Artys meant to speak with. The true enemy lies beyond the Wall, Melisandre had told him. Despite his skepticism, the witch had not been wrong so far.
There was only one reason the king was coming this far north: to make Ned Stark his Hand. Better him than Stannis, Artys thought with a shudder. There would likely be a marriage offer as well, to cement the Stark–Tully–Arryn–Baratheon alliance. Robert, despite his whoring, was no fool when it came to such matters.
Artys needed to act quickly—and have his uncle firmly on his side before then. Ned Stark was an honorable man, one who could not be bribed or bargained with.
He would need a different tactic.