Hiiiiii

Slight canon deviation in Robert's age as he was canonically born in 292AC but I figured that would be totally boring during the war so I aged him up by six years. Really want to know what developments you guys think should be implemented in the vale as I don't want to write a complete fix it fic so there won't be the introduction of the Bessemer process as is the case in so many other self insert fics. Though more commonly found knowledge can be introduced.

Enjoy.

Chapter 1 –

Growing up in England had been pleasant. There are many countries worse to live in than the UK. Buses and trains, free healthcare and of course the police won't pick you up off the street, beat you and drag you on the tow-bar of their car as can be seen in other, less fortunate, countries.

He had always been large, at 6'2 he had always been tall growing up and by his 16th birthday had only just begun to slow down. He had been at a mid-level in school classes. Discerning himself as neither a genius nor an imbecile but merely floating along in all subjects. He was rarely on time with his homework and always fucked about in lessons but was never outright disruptive. Merely a perpetual shade of mediocrity.

Until one night he fell asleep in his bed at sixteen years of age, and woke up a petulant sickly eleven year old in a magical medieval shithole of a world.

Robert "Sweetrobin" Arryn - The Eyrie - 297AC

Waking up had never before been so confusing. Limbs that were only half the size they had been flailing around as he tried to gain some collected thought. Small arms, small hands. Small legs, small feet. It didn't take long for him to work out that something wasn't quite right.

Fuck, he thought.

Putting aside his panic at him shrinking overnight he turned his thoughts to his surroundings. His four post bed stood in the middle of the room, the floor was made of cold, stone blocks. Other furniture in the room was similarly made of oak and included a plethora of chairs, tables and cabinets dotted about. Yet the most prominent ornament in this room was a finely detailed banner. It seemed to depict some sort of white bird on a blue background.

Standing up on his newly short legs he walked to the, once again oaken, engraved door with the same bird as the blue banner. Opening it he was met with the sight of two heavily medieval armoured up motherfuckers.

Oh shit, was his last thought as he sunk into the blackness.

Waking up once again he expected himself to open his eyes back to the real world. Where blokes didn't wander round in armour with fucking swords. Instead he was greeted by an old man wearing a dress with a chain around his neck.

Lovely

"Good morning Lord Robert, the guards called for me after you fell, another of your shaking fits?" asked the kindly looking man wearing a dress.

Lord? Steeling himself to act the part of whoever this man thought he was he replied, "I just felt a bit light-headed, where am I?"

Perhaps he could pass himself off as an amnesiac resulting from his fall.

"You are in your room, my lord. In the Eyrie."

The Eyrie? But that would mean- oh fuck, fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

I'm in Westeros. The land where everyone fucking dies.

He was lucky he was a fan of the books and show or this would be so much harder to deal with. Suddenly things began to click into place, the bird on the banner? That's a falcon and the falcon is the sigil of House Arryn.

The man with the chain is a maester of the citadel and called me Lord Robert, Robert Arryn son of Jon Arryn.

He exhaled. There were good and bad things about this. If his new father wasn't dead yet he would be soon leaving him as Lord of the Vale, that's a very good thing. Life as a commoner in Westeros wasn't a fate he'd wish on many. The bad thing however was that since he was born in 286AC and wasn't a new-born, he was perhaps only a few years away from the War of the Five Kings.

Robert Arryn had originally been a useless lackwit still being breastfed long past time. At that thought he wondered whether his stomach still had his mother's milk in it. He had only been in this body for a few hours at most after all. He almost heaved just thinking about it.

There's definitely going to be some deviations from canon.

It had been a week since he had come to possess this new body and in that short time a few things had become apparent to him.

The boy had truly been useless. The nobles at court treated him as such and were rather surprised by his newfound sense.

Another was that his mother didn't like it. She had been stunned to silence when he had refused her offer of milk and became angry as he was adamant on eating actual food.

He found that in the time since eating properly his frail body had become stronger and the fits and light-headedness he had first experienced were beginning to ease up. All in all life in the vale was pretty good. He had managed to establish that the year was 297AC. Meaning he was eleven years old. The war was set to start after the death of his father in a years' time at the hand of my mother on Littlefinger's order.

Ugh, that dickhead has to go. No way is he moving me out of the way to get Lord Paramountcy of the Vale.

Not much that could be done in the meantime but throw himself into learning everything about the land he now found himself in. Reading books about a place and actually living in it he found were very different things. The level of knowledge about his surroundings he found himself needing were sorely lacking. He was also determined to put some weight on the skinny frame he now had. By all accounts his father was a rather broad shouldered man and he should genetically therefore be capable of putting on some muscle. He would also have to see to swordsmanship lessons and he was already dreading learning to ride a horse. All of these knightly talents would be a shock to the system for sure. The Vale had received the brunt of the Andal invasion and house Arryn having been part of the Andal meant that such values were more prominent here than in any other kingdom. It was a must that he learnt how to fight as well as any other. He didn't necessarily have to be the deadliest or most valiant of knights but he certainly had to be good enough not to embarrass himself. The original Robert Arryn had done enough to tarnish the name he'd inherited. It was up to him to fix it.

After all, a good King leads his men from the front.