How much had she seen? Did she come here only minutes ago or was she witness to it all? If the latter, then all was lost.
"Ned."
I forgot myself for a moment, forgot that she had started addressing me as such ever since I'd brought the blue winter roses.
When she started towards me, I back-stepped once, but didn't try to run. What use would it be? Steadying my breathing as best I could, I willed myself not to show too much. Which failed spectacularly, of course. Such a vulnerable moment was not like to come again soon.
Lady Arryn surprised me though. Rather than ask what my purpose here was, at such a late (early?) hour, she took to seeing about my still-bleeding hand and covering it with one of her silk handkerchiefs. She tied it gently, but tight, and though the first layer of the cloth was damp with red, it held and not a single drop dripped through.
"Ned," she repeated herself, "what have you done to yourself?" Pressing her hand to my forehead, she added, "No fever. Come."
I followed after her, and cleared the bench before she pulled me down next to her on it. She looked uncertain of herself, and worried.
Dawn was just breaking and the garden was bathed in the red of sunrise.
"What was that I just saw?" Her eyes skirted aside to the small mounds of dirt. "Why cut yourself? Why spill your blood on the ground?"
"Lady Arryn, I beg apology for distress I inflicted upon you. I have done wrong, abused your hospitality and presumed much without asking permission." With head bowed and eyes closed, I feigned contrition. "Forgive me."
With her hand she raised my head back up and gazed at my face, blue trying to gauge the honesty in grey. Her features were affixed in a stern expression, one I'd seen few times so far, when she presided over judgments with her lord husband in the High Hall.
"You ask forgiveness, yet do not name what it is you wish to be absolved of. Child you may be, but I think we can all agree that yours is a rare breed. You've a way with words, even now. What is it that you are so reluctant to reveal?"
I stayed silent, unsure how to respond to her being so direct.
It seemed this mummer's farce, playing at being a child, was useless to me from here on, at least with Rowena Arryn.
"Would you hear my words then, Lady Arryn? Hear and not judge until I am done?"
Frowning slightly at me bringing up judgment, she nonetheless nodded.
"I am a Stark, Lady Arryn. Born and raised in the North, I've known of nothing else until I came to foster with your noble family. Starks were always faithful to the Old Gods, my lady, much like how Arryns were always devout of the Seven. I know little of your faith and worship, and I imagine that in the South, much is forgotten or plain unknown how we First Men keep to our gods and worship."
"Worship?" She tensed up, her thoughts no doubt aflame with suspicions of sorcery. "By blood letting? Those are foul magicks of the East. Though I cannot claim great knowledge of Northern customs, even I know no such thing is done there."
It came as no surprise to me, for how could she have ever learned? With the invasion of the Andals, with their feverish zealotry unto the Seven-in-One such practices became less common south of the Neck, until they were extinguished by force or forgotten with time's passing. When the Targaryens conquered Westeros and the North was made but one part of the whole, things had changed again.
"No, my lady. Think not that, for I would never befoul your lands with such blasphemies." I would burn all the septries across the Seven Kingdoms, put your men and women to the sword, if it gave me what I needed for the Starks to survive the coming winters and wars. "Even in the North, sorcery is looked down upon. A blade without a hilt, we call it. No, my lady, what I've done here was plant seeds."
Rowena Arryn's head snapped sharply towards the freshly moved dirt piles and back. "Seeds for what?"
"In the South, low and highborn alike pray in the septries built by the hands of men. No such thing in the North, Lady Arryn. We've only the forests, weirwoods and heart trees to go forth to and pray and worship our gods. I admit, I had thought myself adjusted during my first year well enough without one in the Eyrie. The castle has much beauty about it, but even so I still found myself longing for and lamenting the absence of a heart tree. I've never before been beyond the sight of my gods."
Truly, they were my gods, like no gods ever were of my own world.
Her face softened somewhat. "You needst only have asked and something could have been done."
"Perhaps I ought to have. But I worried; what if there'd been more aligned with Ser Cleyton's way of thinking, viewing me as nothing more than as a godless savage here in the realm where Faith held supreme? Hating me for nothing more than to whom I was born?"
"Then they'd have been fools for it." She did not wait for me to continue my tale. "It still does not explain the blood you've shed."
"It will. I only ask for your patience, Lady Arryn." When she nodded, I continued. "We've little in the way of books and texts to speak about the ancient history of the North. Runes, those we have plenty, but the old tongue is a thing forgotten south of the Wall, and even runestones do not shed light on all mysteries. Our traditions, our tales and songs, all those are passed from one generation to the next. From the elderly to the young, so it has been and so it shall always be. I have learned of ways that might make a weirwood seed grow into sapling, that a sapling might be rendered capable of flourishing even in the most unlikeliest of places."
"Learned how?" she persisted with her inquiry.
"From a crone, of whom the elderly folk talked of being old when they were babes themselves. Wives' tales, for all I know, but she knew stories, stories not oft heard in lordly halls of the North. The old shall know the old best, it is said. And so she spoke unto me, how blood freely given might help nourish a weirwood tree." And blood spilled by sword or axe or other means, blood forcibly taken from others. Once, executions were performed before heart trees and the land prospered for it, so the stories told. "Even so, for every word I could make sense of what she spoke, the next dozen few that followed after made no sense to any, save perhaps her unhinged mind."
"You'd trust in a mad woman's words, place your hopes in that?"
"It was only ever a fool's hope, my lady. Nothing more."
"And so you came back south, with seeds in hand and bloodshed in mind."
"Aye, my lady. Only that and nothing more, no harm to any save perhaps myself with a cut to my palm."
After time uncounted for, Rowena Arryn sighed and turned away from me. "Foolish of you, Ned. Most foolish."
"Lady Arryn?" I drew her gaze back to me. "I did this deed at such an hour so no other would know. Not many would understand, if any. I might be accused of being a witch or sorcerer. My kin would be attainted in the eyes of the realm and royal court, and I would not have such a mark of shame forced upon them for actions that I've wrought on my own. If any should suffer, then let it be I alone."
Silence reigned, until broken by the Lady of the Eyrie. "Our secret then." There was more to her eyes than kindness, she did this for reasons of her own, unknown to me. "Ours alone, but you must promise to come to me before ever setting out on any such endeavor in the future."
The promise I gave gladly, knowing all along that should it become a necessity I'd break it all the same.
We spoke no more of that day, not until years passed and seed had borne fruit.
There came a day which I dreaded and I felt no weakness of the body.
I dared not send a raven to my mother and ask if another had been given to the roots.
Life simply went on.
As the weather turned warmer, the Eyrie started receiving guests anew, among them Denys and Janyce Arryn, with their son, Rolland.
After the Lord of the Eyrie had tended to them first, Janyce was oft seen walking along Rowena, and I didn't know if it was mere chance or by design that many of those walks ended up in the garden. I'd stayed clear of them myself for the most part ever since that morn.
Denys hadn't much to discuss with Jon Arryn, his lands of little import and no pressing business to be attended to, so once he was done with it I approached him to ask for a favor. He looked surprised when I posed my question to him.
"It was my understanding that there were no tourneys in the North."
"You are correct, my lord. Yet I do not know if my future lies with my homeland or some other region of Westeros. My brother is the heir, not I, and once he has married and sired sons and daughters, my place shan't be at Winterfell any longer. I would make my own fortune, craft my own fate, rather than depend on kindness and benevolence of others, even if they be family."
He nodded, the topic somewhat familiar to him. The land he ruled was granted as wedding gift to his niece, rather than himself. Arryn might've been his name, but of poor wealth was his distant branch; yet still with a chance to improve his standing.
Unlike the Arryns of Gulltown of whom I'd heard only spoken in hushed rumors and whispers, he hadn't sought out material wealth alone.
I doubted I'd ever be told to depart from Winterfell. Most likely, Brandon would give me a keep of my own, gods knew there were plenty of abandoned ones in the North that needed lords to fill the vacancy. But even if that were something I wanted, I'd needed skills with a lance for events that would precede Brandon ever becoming Lord of Winterfell, if all things went as I hoped.
"Do you hope for a squiring then?"
The thought had entered my mind, but... "No, my lord. My aim is not knighthood." When he raised a brow in inquiry I continued, "The North has no use for such titles, and they'd not care one whit if I was to be knighted. But such an elevation would require swearing vows and oaths to the Seven, gods not my own, and that would cause issue. I am a Stark, even if no more than a second son."
"Sensible of you, I suppose, but understand that my time here at the Eyrie is limited. We will not be staying for long, and I can give you only so much instruction in the coming days. Does that sound acceptable to you, Eddard Stark?"
Smiling, I replied, "Indeed it does, my lord. And please, call me Ned."
Thus I started training with a lance.
Robert had little to say on my new training. He'd come a few times to watch Denys Arryn and I with the lances, but stopped soon after.
No surprise there, his passion for combat lied in the melee, not the games that the summer knights played in times of peace.
And yet, 'twas no game we played atop our mounts and even in peace-time men could still kill each other.
I had almost been crippled myself when my grip on the shaft of wood slackened and the point of it stabbed into the ground, launching me from the horse. Thankfully, the beast was well trained and stopped almost instantly once bereft of its rider, else I might've been trampled beneath its hoofs. Perhaps I was influenced, in part, by my body which was still in its childish state, but I'd instantly gone back and tried for another run at Denys, who shook his head at my foolish eagerness, yet still complied.
Lord Arryn approved, of course, of my desire to learn something of southron customs, for I was ever a growing annoyance to Septon Ben. He'd apparently been intimately acquainted with Robert's shallow lip-praise of the Seven and given up on trying to instill some deeper zeal into him. So what did he do instead? Why, he set out on trying to convert the heathen in his midst, of course!
Oh he never used that word. But misguided was ofttimes spoken in our brief encounters. Most of the time he caught me in the Eyrie's library as I pillaged its texts for all manner of knowledge. For all that they were Andal invaders, they did not outright destroy all they'd come across. It was in the Eyrie that I first considered the merit of runes. But that was something further into the future.
And in the meantime, I trained. I trained persistently and found that while I was getting better by the day with a mace, there were still some things lacking that came to the fore ever more as both Robert and I grew up. Chief among them? Range. When one is seven years old, a mace seems like a veritably large instrument for murder and maiming. Yet barely ten and two, and I outgrew the delusion.
When I asked Master Narbert's thoughts on the matter, he was not pleased, but still acquiesced to what I eventually requested.
He was a harsh taskmaster, but fair. Whiskers like that of a sea lion framed his mouth that rarely showed any expression, be it frowns or smiles. Though I do think that I've seen the corner of his lips twitch once or twice when I spied him talking with Lord Arryn.
Just when he thought one of his students had been taught enough to safely handle a dangerous weapon, there I came to plague him in Robert's stead. It took all this time before Robert was able to lift the damn thing with both arms, but lift it he did and wielded aptly. Master Narbert didn't like giving praise, lest it inflated our heads and egos like that of a cat, but he gave it when it was due.
With Robert having passed his final test (wielding the warhammer for more than half an hour), he thought his troubles over.
"You want what?" asked Narbert, eyes narrowed and suspicious.
"I have become accustomed to the mace, Master Narbert. I wouldn't say I've mastered it, not when I am so young and with so much more left to learn, but I've come to the point where I either start practicing with another, as Robert does now, or I move on to something different, something that would allow me to improve even more, while not abandoning the skills I've learned."
"The skills you've learned will avail you naught. Do you understand that? Wielding great weapons, be they swords or otherwise, is no thing to jape about. They carry advantages with them, aye, but also many flaws, many more ways to see yourself injured or killed."
"I understand."
"Hmph, do you?" he grumbled to himself. "Do you truly? No child games anymore. You'll be further behind your friend, boy. He'll be fighting live opponents, while you still whittle away at ones made of wood." His expression softened almost imperceptibly. "And I mean no insult to your endurance thus far, but great weapons also require great strength. Yours is a build more fit for speed."
"Strength can be acquired, strength can be earned."
"I see there's no changing your mind on this then. Very well, let us be done with it."
Though it was not forged specifically to deter me from attempts to wield it, this weapon of mine that I chose weighed heavily in my arms. I had done some growing over the past few years, and still had space to grew yet more, but the length of the weapon came close to my own height. What a sight I must have been, going out to the yard for practice, barely walking steadily as I balanced it in my hands.
Upon seeing me, a big grin stretched Robert's mouth. He cheered and whooped his fist into the air.
"Knew you had it in you! I knew it! Just catch up quickly now, or whom else will I take with me to battle? Not these ponces, for sure."
"Robert," I spoke through gritted teeth, grinding them from the very effort to speak, "shut up."
Any further exchange was beyond me as the great mace fell from my hands and nearly crushed my toes.
Robert nearly busted his gut from laughter.
I spoke before of how Master Narbert demanded I maintain constant use of mace for a tenth of one hour before allowing me to spend more time in the yard, yes? No such luck this time, I'm afraid.
"One third of an hour", he repeated when I continued to stare disbelievingly at him, "no more, no less."
One third! I could barely push myself to one third of a third and even then I was all but ready to fall to on the ground and sleep.
At times, I thought he had intentionally given me the heaviest, the most unwieldy of all great maces, but in truth it was the only one of its kind in the armory. It had laid forgotten, though clear of dust and well maintained, until my request brought it forth to daylight.
No small amount of folk had tried to dissuade me from it, no doubt pitying me at suffering so much for such an odd weapon of choice.
But I would not give in, I would best the limitations imposed on me by the flesh, I would push through the pain and win the day.
I thought myself well adjusted to training regimes before, but this had driven me to bone-aching exhaustion.
I could've begged off from jousting practice, Denys would've certainly understood. I could've spent less hours on mischief with Robert around the Eyrie. I could've given feeble excuses to Lady Arryn whenever she asked for my company. I could have done a great number of things differently if I but wished it, yet I did not. I would see it all done or see myself come undone.
Not all was so terrible and grim as I presented it and there were enough things around the castle to distract me.
My exchange of letters with my kin up North continued steadily throughout the months and years. Never would I allow for a fracture to appear between us, never would I forget them. Not Brandon, not Lyanna and not even little Benjen, devilish trickster he'd become.
A smile always adorned my face whenever I was summoned by Maester Osric to fetch my share of letters from the pile.
Lyanna's writings were most insightful.
She spotted changes between mother and father only around a certain time of the year, yet could not begin to guess at the cause, whereas I knew they'd become closed off to due to a foreboding date approaching. I was informed that father had allowed Lyanna to train with the bow in the yard with the men, and though she said she'd learned enough, in our mother's letter I was informed that she dropped the bow lessons soon enough. Apparently, once she had father's approval, it no longer interested her.
Instead, she had decided that spears were the weapons for her.
Well, she'd make a good spearwife, if nothing else she had the right temperament for it.
What could I say of Brandon's letters? Just a year older than me, like Robert, but what different worlds we lived in. As it was written, he was pursued by Barbrey Ryswell, when he was barely past ten-and-two himself and she his elder by three years. Aye, Brandon would no doubt find delight in bedding her if it came to that, I knew as much. But the chase was not started by Brandon. No, I had very strong reasons to suspect it was planned and arranged by the girl, with assistance from unknown others, mayhaps even her father, for they'd met one day when Brandon took to riding in the Rills and by mere chance, so he believed and said, encountered the 'lovely girl'.
Lovely girl, my arse. The bitch might have been young, but that mind of hers was as crooked as any old hag's.
That Lord Ryswell allowed such a pursuit to happen meant that our father had not divulged to anyone his plans for Brandon's betrothal, if my knowledge of the timeline still counted as valid. For all I knew, with Lucas as his heir, Hoster Tully might think himself in strong enough position to wed his daughters to Riverlords rather than a Northman, Stark heir or not.
The last letter I'd received from my brother spoke of a progress in the North when he reached his majority, with him visiting all of our father's bannermen. I did not worry too much, for he would visit the most loyal ones first, which were the Reeds, Manderlys and Mormonts. However, what I was concerned about was that he spoke of his intent to visit the lands of others, Boltons among them.
Thus my thoughts turned to Roose Bolton, the future Leech Lord, oathbreaker and traitor. Such a man I could hardly afford to live, not if I wished Starks to survive and their reigns to last. No, he would have to die, he and all his accursed kin and allies, if he had any.
Trapped as I was by my fostering and customs of a feudal age, I could hardly march up to the Dreadfort and bash in his head, could I?
So I read the letters, so I worried about my kin up North.
Mother and father remained as concerned as always, asking about my health, asking about my time in the Vale. I did share with them most of my stories, stripped of flowery words, sans of deceit, for I'd come to love them deeply, more than I thought I ever could've.
If I made enemies with anyone who could present a problem, I forewarned them.
When I made friends or mended relations previously frayed, I rejoiced and shared the good news.
Could I have ever guessed where some of my choices would come to lead me?
Would I have severed friendships if I had an inkling about the turmoil they'd cause?
In the years to come, I'd be called cruel and heartless, a monstrous savage from the desolate wastes of the North, but never a fair-weather friend.
His thirteenth nameday had come and gone and Robert despaired.
On the desk, in his chambers, laid that most fiercest of all his foes: letters.
He'd never been that good at writing and could hardly know what to say at the best of times.
Asking his mother and father about their health, their lives, was simple enough.
Shireen was easy enough to handle too, for she knew him like few others did. She understood Robert, knew that he cared for her even if he didn't write all that often. She didn't begrudge him, didn't seek to rebuke him or anything like that.
Stannis was a whole different matter.
Gods damn him! Even in ink-scribed words, Robert saw his little brother's disapproval. Not that he cared whether Stannis approved or not, but it was still irritating to be chided by a younger sibling. Argella, it seemed, shared Stannis' opinion, but knew better than to speak it so bluntly when she wrote to him. But it was still a sore point, to be told what was proper behavior from his juniors.
Fortunately, Renly, Durran and Elenei were still small and sent no messages that might've occupied his thoughts.
If he had a choice between being confined in his chambers and practicing in the yard again, there was no doubt Robert would have chosen the latter. But the choice was taken out of his hands by Jon Arryn's wife, who more oft than not was the one that reminded him of writing back home every few months or so. Really, she needn't have bothered. It was not as if Robert had much to share with his family, he'd yet to have an adventure of any sorts. Though he did share the tale of Ned's own past exploits when he had the chance.
He wrote to his father about Ned too, what great friends they'd become and in the replies sent back, his father's approval was clear.
Of course, he didn't share all that Ned had confided in him; after all, there was no need for Shireen or Argella to comment on the vulgarity and brutality of battle, they spoke of it enough even without being prompted. Honestly, he found that completely absurd because he had heard and seen the both of them praising many knights, and sighing for them in admiration, that took to riding in tourneys against each other. Did they think that was somehow more clean than actual fighting?
A man could still be skewered by lance whilst jousting, he'd be dead just the same as if he was cut down with a sword or impaled by a spear.
It took him hours to put his thoughts in order and then to place those onto parchment. The letters for Alric and Adria were the most troublesome. Even before Ser Cleyton had been temporarily relieved of his post at the Bloody Gate, Ned and the Lipps were not on best terms. To their credit, however, they'd not spoken poorly of Ned in letters that he received. In fact, they'd never even mentioned him.
Looking to preserve the uneasy peace, Robert never brought up Ned in the letters he sent back, but all that dancing around these issues and hurt prides and misguided dislikes tired Robert. He wished he could've just sat them all in one room and made them understand that they need not be so hostile with each other at all. That endeavor was a mighty one, however, and would take time.
When he was done, Robert cheered out loud, for he was finally free! Free to do as he liked for the rest of the day, without listening to the preachings of the fat septon or lessons about numbers from Osric or the arts of diplomacy from Lord Arryn.
Naturally, the armory was his first destination, where he gingerly picked up his large warhammer and hefted it across one shoulder. He was all set to leave for the yard when he spotted Ned's mace resting in a corner of the armory. Turning around, checking if any other were in the room besides him, he laid down his own weapon and approached his friend's. He'd not held it in his hands before, but that was about to change. For the space of a few breaths, Robert remained still. Then he grasped the thick iron handle of the weapon and slowly lifted it up. It took a bit of effort, but he'd managed to hold it up as he would his own.
Though there were undoubtedly a number of differences between the great mace and the warhammer, in weight alone he found none.
Gods, no wonder Ned struggled so much with it. He didn't underestimate his friend's prowess, but strength was not his forte. Granted, with how stubborn he went about trying to wield it effectively, he reminded him of Stannis in a way, though they were as night to day in comparison. Stannis would have never lied for Robert's sake to another's face or planned mischief for their shared amusement.
Jon Arryn explained it aptly enough to Robert when he asked why Ned persisted on with trying to wield a weapon too heavy for him.
"You are the first son of your father, Robert, the heir, are you not?"
Confused, he'd replied, "Aye, Lord Arryn."
Then Jon smiled. "Eddard is not. He is not the heir and while he might have a keep bestowed to him by his father if he proves himself worthy of one, the matters of inheritance are not set in stone. He does all this to make certain he has something of his own in life to depend. So he trains with all manner of weapons that he can. So he trained jousting with Denys. So he does this."
It was the truth, but not one Robert wished to ponder for too long. He had faith in Ned and one day the two of them would ride out of the Eyrie and set forth for the strongholds and caves of clansmen, bringing righteous vengeance with mace and warhammer alike!
But that was not now, that was yet to come, perhaps years and years ahead, so Robert returned the mace to its corner, took up his warhammer and left the armory. Once in the yard, he took to looking around and having spotted his mark Robert approached him.
"Roger!" he called out to him and the older boy's gaze quickly found him, followed by a sigh. "Oh come now, I've been locked inside my rooms for the whole morn, I've not even had a proper warm-up. Who knows, you might even score a hit on me this time!"
"Aye, milord," the boy acquiesced, "as you say."
From someone else, it might have been words of boasting and no more, but from Robert, they were as the truth spoken by the gods.
In the beginning, when he'd just started dueling live opponents, Robert was more about dodging or blocking the other one's strikes than trying to land one of his own. The steel shaft of the warhammer was a good way to catch a blade coming down and then throw it back.
But that was only for those that came at Robert with sword. There were others, like Roger, who favored axes or morningstars, though for the purposes of practice they all came with dulled edges or bereft of spikes for the latter. Even through both would be wearing helms, padded armors and brigandines on top to soften and absorb the force of their hits, there'd still be plenty of pain to go around.
Robert's warhammer might have been lacking in the traditional spike on one side of its head, but it still packed a good punch.
"Whenever you are, milord," said Roger, standing opposite him.
"Well then," said Robert, a smile on his face and smiles in his eyes, "let's get to it," and lunged forward.
Roger instantly brought up the shield strapped to his left arm, to absorb the coming blow and bounce it back.
But Robert was not content with attacking just once and when it bounced he slammed the warhammer again and again and again.
With no like for being on the defensive, Roger swung his long axe at Robert's greaves-covered legs, causing him to cease his attack and step back, out of reach of the deadly weapon. Both took the opportunity to breathe easier now that they weren't locked in battle.
In reach alone, they were more or less equal, so they circled slowly around one another, waiting to see who would commit to an attack.
Though brash in many things, and yes even when sparring, Robert knew how to wait for an opportunity to smash someone down.
By now, there were a few other men-at-arms in the yard, watching the duel, watching yet another of their folk battling the young lord.
The tension became unbearable and it was Roger who took the plunge. He rushed forward, his formidable shield in front of him.
When his long axe came sailing from the side, Robert welcomed it head on with his warhammer.
Dangerous trick that, for the blade could have slided past Robert's weapon and bounced to his face instead.
In the next moment, Robert almost fell down when he felt the shield slam against his side, even cutting him on the cheek when its edge reached his face. Bellowing with wroth for being actually hit, even though it wasn't with the weapon, Robert used up all his strength to wield the warhammer with one arm, while using the other to push off Roger. The boy was surprised, it was clear to see, and a moment's worth of hesitation on what to do landed him flat on his arse with the head of the warhammer following after.
"I yield!" yelled Roger with great distress.
When the warhammer landed, such was the power behind the blow that the stony ground beneath it burst aside and launched dust into the air. When the dust settled and the two were once more in clear line of sight of the folk who watched them fight, they saw that the warhammer had landed just a few inches shy of Roger's padded groin. Sadly, it did nothing to conceal the stain of pissing himself.
Congratulations on yet another victory in the yard for Robert and mockery for the defeated young man soon followed.
"Good one, milord!"
"Nicely done!"
"Haha, you'll never live this one down, Roger!"
Robert panted and laughed and rejoiced with the others.
His eyes however did not meet any of the other men's, but were moving about, in search of a pair of grey ones.
Having not found them anywhere in the yard, Robert's cheer deflated a tad and his smiling disposition soon left him.
He'd hoped, even though he knew it unlikely at this hour, that Ned would be there to witness him in combat.
Then he shook those thoughts away and focused on the men around him, including Roger who looked angry.
"Roger," he called to the older boy and when he turned his way the anger was still there.
"Yes, milord?"
Robert grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. "That was bloody amazing! I'd not expected you to charge with the shield at me and heft your axe from the side. Nearly did me in! Where'd you learn a thing like that?"
Just like that, the anger was gone, and its place confusion, followed by abashment. "I - nowhere, milord. I just thought to chance it."
"And a good chance it was, but I was lucky this time and surprised you when I took my weapon in one hand, didn't I?"
"Aye, milord," there, already easier now to talk with, easier with a smile on face, no matter that his breeches were soiled, "you did."
"'Twas a surprise I was saving for a special opportunity to show off in the yard and this match more than sufficed."
"Quite a surprise, milord. Master Narbert will want to know about it, I reckon."
It went on from there, some more small talk and near everyone forgot the boy had pissed himself from fright of the warhammer.
Then Robert was free to move away from the yard, return the weapon to the armory and dunk himself in a nice, hot bath.
The match had lasted less than a sixth of an hour, but it was exhausting nonetheless, even for Robert with all his strength. His shoulder ached from where the shield had slammed straight into his side, but it would pass. He'd just favor the other one for the time being.
While passing through the castle, going for the baths, he just so happened to pass near the library and took a peek inside.
Sure enough, there was Ned Stark, surrounded by parchments and texts all around him on one of the larger desks in the room.
"Ned!"
So immersed in whatever he'd been reading, his friend was startled and all but jumped from the chair when he heard his own name.
"Robert!" he rebuked his friend with a scowl and was about to no doubt say more but then sniffed and said, "You reek of sweat."
Robert laughed. "Of course I do, just finished sparring in the yard, went there after I'd done my letters, and now I'm headed for a bath."
His friend's long face shifted to disbelief. "A bath? In this part of the Eyrie?" Then it turned to mock concern and Ned came closer, pressed a hand against Robert's still sweaty forehead. "You've not received a blow to the head, have you? The baths are nowhere near here."
Caught, Robert coughed lightly. "Yes, well... I worried! Hadn't seen you today except when we broke fast."
"I've been busy. Didn't go to the yard." Ned's words were spoken with sourness. He waved his hand towards the desk. "Reading."
Robert sagely nodded, lips twitching with a hint of a smile. "I see. And you being here doesn't have anything to do with Becca, does it?" The very name caused Ned to scowl and Robert howled with laughter. "Hah, knew it! Saw her sitting next to you at the table this morn."
"She asked Lady Arryn for the seating. You can imagine how much it pleased me to have her tittering in my ear so early in the day."
Becca Shett was trouble. But only if one's name was Eddard Stark, for the girl had taken a great liking to him. Mayhaps it was there before his return to Winterfell, but they were still small children back then and such things eluded them. Mayhaps it came only after he got back and the tale of his deeds spread. It didn't matter. The blue-eyed girl, with her curly black hair, was in love with Ned.
Robert gave him no small amount of grief over that, occasionally even telling Becca where she could find Ned in the castle.
Fortunately for him, Ned had yet to realize it, but when he did, Robert expected some form of retribution, though not likely of the same kind. For while Robert wasn't all too keen on the company of girls and women, there were still things he found pleasing about them. Like kissing. Kissing was a good spot of fun and though she wasn't his first one, a plump serving girl from the kitchens did enjoy spending her time with Robert in the garden and teaching him how to use his tongue and mouth, to make it more enjoyable.
Unlike him, however, his friend showed little interest in kissing or doing anything of the sort with girls.
Oh Ned was a charmer when he wished to act like one, all polite and neat.
At times, Robert couldn't quite catch on how quickly his whole countenance would change in company of others.
With the womenfolk, he was sweet of tongue, carrying an easy smile on his face and appropriately averting eyes when necessary.
With the guards, both those of the Eyrie and others, he talked of battles and killing and weapons. Had it been any other, they might have not been as open about those things, but he was known for fighting and killing his first man before the age of ten. A deed few could claim, even among the highborn! Gods knew Robert envied him mightily for that.
Eddard Stark was a boy of many faces and tongues and smiles, unlike any other that he knew before in the Stormlands.
But he'd not minded that, because Ned never feigned anything when it was just the two of them.
They'd had quite the rocky start, true, but that was well behind them and of no import whatsoever. In truth, if anyone had asked Robert what their quarrel had started about he could scant recall it himself. It all changed when Ned fell ill and with the events that followed after. They'd spent many hours practicing with each other, whether it was in the archery range or in the yard with swords, and many more just scampering around the old mountain castle, trying to ferret out whatever secrets it might hold.
Yet there were times when they had to be separated for their individual lessons.
Robert was not quite fond of that, more so when it came to his private lessons with Jon Arryn. He understood they were a necessity, after all, one day he'd be the Lord of Storm's End (though he wished that day was postponed far, far into the future), he needed to know these things if he was to rule his lands well. That, however, didn't make the lessons any more appealing.
Battles, now those he could listen to being spoken of for days and not grow bored! He wondered oft enough how it would be to feel his blood rise properly, when surrounded by many foes, if he'd win the day, if he'd make them regret taking up arms against him. And as his friendship with Ned Stark grew, he knew, with absolute certainty, that no battle he fought would ever be fought alone.
Then Ned had taken up jousting, of all things, surprising all those who thought they knew him. Jousting!
When he asked him about it, Ned shrugged and replied, "Who knows when I might have need of it? Best to learn now than later."
Not much of an answer. And by the Seven, why would Ned ever have need of jousting?
Unless... well, yes, that was always a possibility. Far fetched one, but there it was. Could be Ned had a marriage to be arranged in the south? Mayhaps he wanted to impress his future lady wife? Oh by the gods, that would be a sight, Ned riding the tilts and throwing off those other flowery ponces off their horses, it'd be a right laugh! They'd frown and curse, but they'd be cowardly shits and Robert would be there to help him with any upstart lordling who thought he could raise a hand against his friend and not suffer the consequences.
Now if only Ned would finally just give in to Becca's advances, Arlan's fifty silver stags were as good as his!
Another session of training in the yard and I moved on to my chambers for a proper hot bath. Gods, those felt so fucking good after training. Even though I was no longer occupied by solely trying to wield the great mace (glory unto me, for I had now reached slightly over one tenth of an hour with it in my hands), weapons practice was no less taxing on my still developing body.
Truth be told, it was not I who decided to continue bettering myself with bow, sword and a regular mace, but by the command of Jon Arryn I was bid to do so. No doubt, Master Narbert had asked for said intervention, but I could hardly blame the man. Many months had passed and what had I to show for it? Barely anything. For all that Robert continued to encourage me and practice alongside me, I was hampering his practice more oft than not. Teeth grinding did little to improve my shifting moods.
As before, there were matters around the Eyrie to distract me.
Like dancing lessons.
Dancing! What had I need of that, I ask you all?
Rowena Arryn, however, could not be dissuaded from this course of action and in the end at least I had Robert to share my misery with. He was no more fond of the whole thing than I was. But at least he was not paired off to Becca Shett.
The infernal girl would not let go of me, not even for a moment before Lady Arryn herself told us to separate.
Why she developed an infatuation with me to begin with, I could not tell nor in truth did I wish to find out.
All that mattered was avoiding spending any time alone with her, lest she construe some acceptance of her presence on my part.
Even the library was no safe haven from her and I could not turn to Robert for help either as he seemed to have some underhanded motive for arranging Becca to find me whenever possible. A place where I'd found some refuge from her was in the yard, but only early in the morn when she was still abed. Sadly enough, she would go there during the day and find me when I trained with other weapons than the great mace. She seemed to like best of all when I practiced riding a tilt with one of few horses stabled in the Eyrie.
Once, she even offered me her favour, as though I were truly riding in the lists.
I feigned not hearing, but she, with her childish stubbornness and persistence, would not give up.
It was maddening.
When Robert and I had been invited to the High Hall one morn, we wondered what Jon Arryn wished of us so early in the day. There had been some talk of the Lord of the Eyrie venturing forth from his ancestral keep and visiting his bannermen. Mayhaps we were to go with him as he toured his realm and was hosted by the Valelords?
Alas for us, it was not Jon who asked for our presence, but his lady wife.
"Come, come now, it is high time you learned more of courtly manners. Yes, you too, Ned."
Grumbling and trying to put it off for another day, when we might have made ourselves scarce, availed us naught.
"Naturally, it would be best if you learned with ladies your own age, so I've arranged for some assisstance."
Rowena Arryn clapped her hands once and in they came through the hall's doors: Fiona Waynwood and Becca Shett.
Given the choice of twirling across the room for hours, hand in hand with Becca and pressed close to her blossoming body, or to be thrown in the midst of bloodthirsty clansmen with nothing but a cudgel in my hand and breeches to clothe me, I'd choose the latter.
Sadly, the gods did not care to oblige me.
"Good day, Eddard," said Becca, with an airy quality to her words, her eyes a-fluttering.
"Lady Shett," I greeted her and bowed, took the proffered hand and brushed my mouth against her knuckles.
She giggled at that. "No need to be so formal, Eddard. It's Becca, I insist."
And I insist you hurl yourself out the Moon Door, you incessant menace.
I shall not bother with the excruciating details of the event, of how many times I had to shift my hands to their prior position, and how I asked for breaks, even though I was not weary in the flesh. Suffice to say, it was a ghastly experience, one I'd have rather avoided.
Lady Arryn found it amusing. She bid me walk with her one spring day to the garden and talk on the matter.
"To think I thought you a breed apart from the rest of the boys, and yet it took but one infatuated maiden to turn you back to your rightful age. Most delightful, Ned. And most courteous of you not to speak your mind." I was about to open my mouth and give reply, but she continued speaking. "Oh hush, sweet boy, it's easy to see you've no wish for the girl's attentions, but you don't push her away with crude and blunt words as others might. I think she knows that too, and it only furthers her fancy of you."
Bloody fucking hell. "And I don't suppose you might find it in your kind heart, my lady, to redirect her attentions somewhere else?"
She patted me on the hand. "Worry not, she'll tire of the chase," said Rowena, and after a moment added, "eventually. And should you grow weary of being pursued and give into her, I expect to hear nothing poor spoken of your conduct towards Becca, Ned. 'Twould not be chivalrous of you to take advantage of a young girl's heart. Have I made myself clear?"
"Crystal, Lady Arryn."
I turned my head away from her, thinking our talk finally over, thinking of going to the yard for another round of practice.
Then I noticed our surroundings.
We were nowhere near the gardens.
A smile bloomed on Rowena Arryn's face just as the horror of understanding dawned on mine.
"Good! Now, let us be off, Becca is expecting us in the High Hall. We mustn't keep a lady waiting."
You bitch.
The gossiping among the servants proved true.
Jon Arryn, in his full capacity as Lord Paramount and Warden of the East, would set out from the Eyrie and make a progress that was long overdue. Many vied for the honor to host their liege lord and the castle's rookery was practically besieged by the number of ravens flocking to it. In the end, only seven were chosen, a most auspicious number and approved by all in the Vale.
Ravens were sent to the lords of Strongsong, Redfort, Heart's Home, Runestone, Gulltown, Ninestars and Ironoaks, informing them of Jon Arryn's intentions.
Robert, ever lacking in tact, asked outright Lord Arryn if we would be joining him.
Fortunately, Jon Arryn had long since grown accustomed to Robert's forthright, and blunt, nature. "Of course you'll be coming along, 'twould be a poor fostering were I to leave you behind while I journeyed through the Vale for the next eight or nine months."
"Eight or nine months?" Robert repeated after him.
"Aye, 'tis no small matter traversing the Vale proper, no matter the season. And we will not be traveling in light numbers either, so that will slow us down additionally. Worry not though, there will be events aplenty to keep growing boys from being bored."
I could not help but ask, "Tourneys?"
Jon Arryn nodded, smiling. "Tourneys and melees. Though for you two, the squire's melee only. And as far as jousting is concerned, I'm of two minds; you are not yet experienced in the matter yet riding in the lists can be no less dangerous than fighting in the melee."
That would not do. I was eager to test myself against others, to find out my true worth when pitted against flesh and blood.
I would find a way.
We left the Eyrie half a thousand strong. Men-at-arms for the most part, including Master Narbert.
Jon Arryn would risk nothing when it came to traversing across the Mountains of the Moon, more so as our first destination was Strongsong, the seat of House Belmore. At first, I had thought it strange that our party would head there first, as Redfort and Ironoaks were much closer, but Jon Arryn took to explaining our planned route through the Vale. After we were finished with the Belmores, we would then set out for Heart's Home and from there sail out to sea, visiting Ninestars on our journey towards Runestone. From Runestone we would go to Gulltown and afterwards to the lands of Waynwoods, with Lord Horton's keep as our final destination.
Traversing the mountains was no easy feat, hampered as we were by our numbers and our cargo, for it was no simple thing to venture forth from the Eyrie. Supplies had to be prepared in plenty, ranging from provisions for the men and our beasts of burden, to tents for Lord Arryn, Robert and I, and arms and armors and gifts for our future hosts and their kin.
This was a time of innocent joy, for while the Vale was a harsh land, it had a beauty to it, akin to the North. During the nights it was easy to forget the hardships of the day: the climbs across rocky hills, the unsteady ground and the ever-present threat of the clansmen. Once, we camped near one of the many mountain lakes that preceded the valley where Strongsong laid, and when the waters were found to be plentiful in game, a few of the men took to fishing. One morning, even Robert and myself had indulged in the sport, though I dare say he'd not been as adventurous as myself at first when I went into the shallows barefoot.
"Where are your boots? You'll freeze your toes off!"
True, the water was chilly, but it bothered me little. I said as much. "'Tis but a small thing, Robert. Or do you think the waters up North run warmer than your southron ones?" Kicking a little splash his way with my foot, I burst into laughter when he yelped at its cold.
It had a fairly predictable result of Robert charging at me and dunking me into the water, soaking me to the skin and bones.
In the end, we were brought out of the lake by our respective captains of guards, while the other men grumbled about us scaring off the fish. We were quite the sight, the pair of us, later on in Jon Arryn's tenth, teeth chattering as we said we'd not to act so foolishly again.
But the old man was smiling and knew our words were for naught. Still, appearances had to be kept.
We'd warmed ourselves by the camp fire and with a sack of wine laughed at how stupid we were about the whole thing.
As always, we regretted how much we drank when we woke the next day. Still wouldn't stop us from doing so again in the future.
From afar, it had not looked like a proper castle ought've, with a single building towering above all, even the keep itself.
As we descended down the river valley - passing farmsteads and the like along the way, many a smallfolk cheered us on and called out to Lord Arryn - it became clearer and clearer that it was a castle indeed; its fortifications were thick, its walls lined with men-at-arms, their liege lord's banner flying high. Our arrival was greeted with a great ringing of bells from the tall tower.
By the time we entered the main yard, the bells had stopped ringing - a fact for which many of us were grateful - and the household of Strongsong was lined up to welcome their Lord Paramount. When Jon Arryn dismounted, all had gone down to one knee.
"My lord, Strongsong is yours."
"Rise, Lord Gyles. I will not have you kneeling in the dirt in your own home. Rise, all of you."
One by one, they all rose. To each, Lord Arryn bestowed a gentle smile like that of a proud grandfather looking over his vast progeny.
After Jon Arryn had greeted the folk already known to him and was introduced to those yet not, Robert and I dismounted as well, but stayed near our horses. Protocol, drilled into us by both Lord and Lady Arryn, asked that much of us, at least until our guardian called out to us to be introduced as well, leaving the horses to the care of our men.
"Robert, Eddard, come!" commanded Lord Arryn.
We heeded his words and marched, almost in procession, front and center.
"Lord Gyles," he inclined his head toward us and we bowed, "I present to you my wards: Robert Baratheon, son of Lord Steffon Baratheon, and Eddard Stark, son of Lord Rickard Stark."
"Lord Belmore," both of us intoned, "it is an honor."
A fat man, with beady eyes, like that of a buzzard, ink-black hair and face just freshly shaved, he did not leave much of an impression on me, for all that he was one of the most powerful vassals of Jon Arryn. But I suppose Wyman Manderly wasn't much to look at either.
"Lord Arryn," he bestowed a faint nod to us, "and young lords, welcome."
Of the five hundred, only a fifth would dwell in the castle itself, whilst the others would camp outside so as to avoid crowding.
I had asked, and then arranged, for the Winterfell men be the ones situated in the castle's courtyard at all times. The Belmores had no hatred for me, or none that I could tell. I was simply being prudent. Never too young to die, and all that.
I was glad that there was no need for us to be introduced to each of the Belmores, as Jon Arryn was, for there was a great deal of them. During the coming days, I would learn some of their names, but the rest would be forgotten, given that I thought them of little importance. The most important ones were, of course, of Lord Gyles himself, his lady wife Aemma Lynderly, and their two daughters, Serra and Ryella. They had their family's coat of arms blazoned the most on their fine clothes, six silver bells on a field of purple.
Then there were the, so called, lesser Belmores: Ser Artys Belmore, Lord Gyles' only brother, was a widower with a son and a daughter, the former of which was talked about as a possible heir to Strongsong, should Gyles fail to provide one himself; Alys Belmore, oldest of the sisters, but still younger than her lord brother, had married a man of lower rank and thus kept the family name for herself and her three children, two girls and a boy; Andara Belmore, the middle sister, who'd done the same as Alys, had two boys and two girls to carry on and spread the Belmore bloodline. The last sister, Ronella, had been wed to a Coldwater, and bore him twin sons.
Though most of them had the right to bear the symbol of the house, none could put it in proportions larger than Gyles and his children.
Altogether, they were a noisy lot when assembled together in a single hall, even one as large as Strongsong's.
Perhaps they weren't keen on being friendly with me as they were with Robert, but I bore them no ill will over that.
I was content with continuing my training in the yard whenever I could, ofttimes doing so before any rose in the two weeks we stayed there. When I was not busy wielding steel, I was riding my horse through the valley. Across the shallow rivers and the pale-green glens, betwixt the trees of pine and oak, I found peace of mind and soul when else it might have eluded me.
Of course, that only lasted about as long as it took Robert to find me and drag me back to the castle.
The way Robert preened and bellowed after I trounced Ser Gyles' son, Gwayne, in a friendly spar, you'd have thought we were kin.
We had a bit of an audience for that, but mostly children our own age, and it happened because Gwayne overheard that Robert and I were trained by Master Narbert. At first I had no idea what that was about, but then found out that Narbert Nott was a veteran from the War of Ninepenny Kings, where he distinguished himself enough to become the Eyrie's master-at-arms; no small feat, that.
Gwayne challenged Robert first, but yielded quickly enough when the warhammer sprung forward, with speed that one simply didn't expect from such a heavy weapon, and sailed too close for comfort to his face; just hairsbreadth shy from scratching Gwayne's nose.
It had lasted but a few moments, which disappointed a great deal of folk, and I admit I was counted amongst them.
Whether he challenged me in an attempt to regain face in the eyes of his kin, I do not know.
Like his duel Robert should have been, it was to last only until one of us scored the first hit against the other.
A few had looked at me oddly when I entered the ring with mace and shield, perhaps thinking me foolish, for Gwayne, with his claymore, had the reach, and it was said oft enough that reach mattered the most in duels. Oft said, oft proven wrong.
Predictably, Robert cheered for me. "Come on, Ned! Smash him proper!"
I shook my head in amusement and bowed slightly to Gwayne after he'd done the same.
We were both dressed in padded armor, with byrnie atop it, plated gloves for our hands and greaves for the legs, with half-helms on our heads. It was what both Gwayne and Robert wore and it was what we had to as well, as we both carried steel in our hands.
There were other voices, I remember that. Cheering for Gwayne. Or not. The details eluded me.
I'd let the boy come at me the first few times we clashed, his sword scraping against the shield strapped to my left arm.
He favored swings over thrusts. He was quick on his toes, almost in dance-like motions stepping away from the mace when I went forth. He swung maybe a dozen times, aiming for whatever was easiest to reach. In my eagerness to see the match over, I'd almost lost when the claymore nearly grazed me with its tip on one of my legs when Gwayne swung it downwards rather than aim for my chest.
Aye, reach was his weapon's greatest strength, but also a flaw to be exploited by the daring.
He must've thought me of unhinged mind when I raised the mace overhead and began to charge, bellowing incoherently.
With both hands on the hilt of his raised sword, he waited for me to come close enough so he could cut at my exposed right side.
I wager he expected an easy victory then and there, rather than me lowering my arm and meeting the flat of his blade with the mace's crown head on. Caught between the spikes of its protruding flanges, his eyes wide in surprise, he never saw my shield coming for his face.
With one sure, strong strike he was out for the count, the claymore slipping from his hands.
The rush of blood, the pounding in my ears, was gone, replaced with sweat trickling down my spine.
Fortunately, no true harm was done, merely a light concussion. He'd heal quickly and would be no worse for the wear.
I admit, I feared the boy would bear a grudge against me for besting him before his family, but no such thing happened.
Once he had his wits about him, he rose from the circle of concerned faces in the yard and clasped me on the arm.
"Well fought, Eddard Stark. Master Narbert's teachings show their true worth, with his pupils proven to be my betters."
I admit, I had not expected that. That one could accept defeat so graciously. I know I wouldn't have.
Thereafter, we spoke little to each other, save for greetings and the like, but Gwayne would always incline his head just the slightest in a show of respect. He was a good lad. Shame we had not become friends in the aftermath of our fight, but I lacked Robert's gift for that.
And speaking of Robert, Gwayne was not the only opponent he fought at Strongsong. A number of Belmore men-at-arms tested themselves against him and were found lacking. His skill with the warhammer, and his strength in wielding it, earned him much praise.
"You were quite remarkable in the yard, my lord," said one of Gyles' daughters not an hour later as we sat in the halls of her father. Oh the bitch was sly, always pressing a touch here and there, trying to play Robert like a fiddle. But Robert knew better. Or so I hoped.
Both Jon Arryn and I, albeit on separate occassions, had told him how important it was that he remain courteous, but distant, with any and all daughters of nobles during our journey through the Vale. Undoubtedly, the words Jon gave him were more refined than mine:
"Don't cock this up, else they'll have you wedded and bedded before you even realize you've gone far enough for that."
So it was with a subdued smile on my face that I went to rescue Robert from the attentions of the highborn girl when she started praising his muscles and squeezing his arms more openly, while he looked at me beseechingly. Clearly, the girl had little care for propriety, or at least it was so when the hall was not occupied by her parents or the other elder Belmores.
"Robert, come," I took him by his arm, the one yet unoccupied by the Belmore girl, and pulled him up from the table, pulling him away from her grasp, "we mustn't neglect our horse riding either. Come, while the daylight shines strong and bright."
That earned me a harsh scowl from the older girl and gratitude unspoken from Robert.
We did go riding, and we rode far, far enough that I think they might not have heard me laughing (at Robert) back at Strongsong.
During our stay at Strongsong, I had given into pursuit of knowledge regarding the noble family that ruled it since time immemorial.
Being of First Men descent there was only so much that books alone could tell and so I sought out the maester of the castle, in hopes the elderly man would have answers for the questions that plagued my mind; and of those, there were many.
Despite his advanced age, Maester Erryk was filled with much vigor, with an easy and cheerful, most un-maester like, disposition to him.
I found him in the library of Strongsong, a smaller room than most I've seen in the castle, but packed with books from floor to ceiling on oak racks that lined the stone walls. He was fiddling with one book or another, checking its binding, keeping them clean of dust.
He'd not heard me enter, but he did hear the door closing.
"Yes, my lord?" he asked when he recognized me. "What can I do for you?"
"Maester Erryk, I've come to you seeking knowledge of the past, knowledge of these lands and the lords that ruled it before."
"Oh dear," said the maester, "I dare say this is not merely a question or two you wish to ask of me, is it?"
With a faint smile on my face, I replied, "No, Maester Erryk, I'm afraid it's not. It might be best if we were to sit down."
When the book in his hands was restored to its rightful place, when we acquired another chair for me to sit on, I asked my first question.
"How long have you served Lord Belmore's family, Maester Erryk?"
Thoughtfully stroking his long white beard, the old man answered, "Near forty years now, my lord. Half of those in service to Lord Godric and half to his son, Lord Gyles, unto whom lordship of Belmore lands passed upon his father's death."
"And you're knowledgeable to the history of the family you've served for four decades, Maester Erryk?"
"Extensively so, my lord," said Maester Erryk with no small amount of pride.
"I will not bore you with too many questions. Some of those have been touched upon Maester Osric at the Eyrie. But in history lessons he taught to Robert Baratheon and myself, Maester Osric never said a word on what happened to Strongsong's godswood."
"Osric's appointment was well earned. A most learned young man, one of the few who earned his chains so quickly. However, that he spoke not on this is a small failing on his part, one that I shall seek to correct now. Now then... you know of the Andals' coming to the Vale?"
"Aye, Maester Osric, and the theories behind it. Some texts speak that they were guided by a vision that spoke of a land to the west. Others speak of them preemptively escaping the ever-expanding grasp of the Valyrian Freehold and their dragons that conquered, ruled and enslaved much of Essos. There is no conclusive evidence for either, so the matter remains unresolved."
It was obvious my extensive reply pleased the man.
"Perhaps I spoke too quickly on Osric's failings if he's taught you that well. Where was I? Ah yes, the coming of the Andals. As you know, they'd defeated the alliance of the First Men, led by High King Robar II Royce, and in the aftermath of their defeat, much was taken from the lords of the First Men. Not all of them survived the first few decades of Andal rule. It was not a peaceful time, not by any measure. The lands once ruled by these First Men shrunk, chipped away and given to the victors. Their coffers were emptied, their sons and daughters taken hostage by the Andal lords."
"But it did not end there, for the Andals of that bygone age had no tolerance for any faith but their own. In a display meant to show the dominance of the Seven over any other they ordered the surviving First Men lords to cut down the godswoods in their castles. Naturally, such a thing was not done easily. There were several rebellious lords who did not heed the command of their liege lords and they suffered for it. The First Men were spent, their armies were defeated, and though they might've thought their cause a righteous one, it availed them little on the battlefield. Of the innumerable highborn bloodlines of First Men that once populated the Vale, only eight survived."
I recited their names. "The Redforts, the Royces, the Shetts, the Hunters, the Upcliffs, the Moores, the Coldwaters and —"
"— the Belmores," finished Maester Erryk for me. "They survived because they obeyed the command and the weirwoods and heart trees were removed from their keeps. Their conversion to the Seven did not happen overnight. It took many years before one of the First Men abandoned their gods and converted to the Seven. And over time, they intermarried with the Andals, their bloodlines mingling with each other's, leaving us with the Vale as we know of it today."
All that gave me much to ponder, but that would be done later. I still had more questions.
"Maester Erryk, did the Belmores always display six silvers bells on a purple field on their banners or was it a change with their conversion?"
"The latter, my lord. Though it had not occurred when they converted, but rather after a battle in these lands."
"What is the significance of the six bells on a purple field? What was the name of the battle?"
"Six bells for the six times the septry bells rang when reinforcements, sent by an Arryn king, arrived to a besieged Strongsong's aid. Purple for the color of the sky, at sunset. The battle has no name, but Belmores are reminded of it whenever they utter their family's words: Ever the bell tolls."
My curiosity satisfied (for the time being) I thanked Maester Erryk and left him to his books.
When we had finally left Belmore lands, our company had increased by a dozen men and boys. Whilst there was no tourney in Strongsong, all knew that one would eventually be made, whether in the lands of Grafton, Royce, Redfort or Waynwood, and so they asked, and received, permission from Lord Arryn to join us. Ser Artys was among those, along with his son and one of his nephews.
"You must be relieved, no?" I asked Robert in our tent, a few days after we'd departed from Lord Gyles' halls.
"Relieved about what?" he asked back, confused by my question.
"That we've left the Belmore girls behind us? Just them though, not your chastity I hope. Not unless you've something to confide?"
For my taunting I received a pillow straight to the face, followed by one of his boots aimed at the head, which I ducked.
Of course, that meant war.
When morn came and Jon Arryn saw the state of our tent, he was not amused.
But at least the servants were grateful for the help we provided around the camp.
