Chapter 1: Rude Awakening in Gulltown
As he stirred from his slumber atop a lumpy, pillow-less mattress, he found himself enveloped by unfamiliar surroundings. The ancient barn's walls were constructed from a rudimentary blend of straw and clay, while the roof above was adorned with a rustic thatch of interwoven sticks and evergreen blades.
Perplexed, he rose to stand, shaking off the patchwork wool blanket that had been cloaking him. His bare feet met the cold, hard-packed dirt floor, adding to the disorienting haze clouding his mind. Thoughts raced frantically, as he struggled to piece together how he had ended up in such a humble, rural dwelling.
In the heart of the dimly lit barn, he stumbled upon a ring of rough-hewn stones encircling a crackling fire pit. Above the dancing flames, an iron spit slowly rotated, a sizzling slab of meat searing under the intense heat. Driven by a primal hunger gnawing at his core, he approached without hesitation and tore off a hefty portion of the roasting flesh, devouring it greedily despite feeling a fleeting pang of disgust at his own animalistic desperation. With the rich, smoky taste of the mysterious meat still lingering on his tongue, he turned to survey his humble new surroundings once more.
He noticed a modestly sized table against the weathered wall to his right. Crafted from an exotic type of jet-black wood entirely unfamiliar to him, its intricate grain pattern possessed an uncanny, almost ethereal symmetry. As he turned to cast a scrutinizing backward glance at the rudimentary mattress that had been his bed, he realized with dawning unease that it was not a true mattress at all, but rather a simple mound of tightly packed straw - which now made sense of the persistent itchiness that had been plaguing his skin. Adjacent to the makeshift bed lay an enormous trunk, also fashioned from that same ominous black wood, its imposing presence only accentuated by the hefty iron lock securely guarding its contents from his prying eyes.
Crudely carved into the front of the aged chest, likely by an unsteady hand wracked with age or profound emotion, was an odd, almost bird-like silhouette accompanied by a crescent moon shape.
A wave of unease washed over him as he finally took notice of his own diminutive form. Much shorter than he could recollect, with disproportionately small, almost childlike arms and legs that felt disturbingly foreign to his mind's eye. The ill-fitting, tattered ensemble currently adorning his frame - a plain brown tunic with a cinched collar and baggy, torn trousers - only compounded the surreal sense of confusion slowly tightening its grip.
Suddenly, the wooden door to the peculiar building groaned open, admitting a woman whose presence immediately captivated his attention. Despite the weathering of time etched upon her features, there lingered a faded beauty about her, her fair complexion retaining a delicate charm. Clad in a simple, antiquated dress reminiscent of his own attire, her smile, though tinged with the weight of years, carried a warmth that eased the knots of confusion tightening in his chest.
"Hugh," she called out, her voice soft yet laced with an undeniable commanding tone, "come, follow me outside. There are some people who wish to make your acquaintance." A mixture of apprehension and curiosity swirled within him, but he obeyed, for he had no real reason not to. Besides, he desperately needed to attain some semblance of answers to the myriad of questions racing through his mind.
Once out in the crisp morning light, he found himself in even stranger surroundings than the barn-like dwelling he had awoken in. Similar modest structures dotted the area, their inhabitants and horses leisurely strolling up and down the dirt road that snaked through the modest settlement. In the distance, he could just make out the glistening expanse of what appeared to be a vast body of water, quite possibly the ocean itself.
Standing before him and the woman who had placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, which he had decided to allow for the moment, was a group of men outfitted in armor that looked disconcertingly authentic, as if plucked straight from the medieval era.
From their midst stepped a man of modest stature, though not noticeably so, possessing a slender build. The man's sharp features, small pointed beard adorning his chin, and neatly cropped dark hair immediately captured one's attention. However, it was his greyish-green eyes that truly unsettled him, for they seemed devoid of any warmth or sincerity, despite the cheerful grin stretching wide across his face.
The strange man headed towards the woman first, introducing himself with each breath emitting a strong scent of mint gum. "Is this the boy?" he inquired, his tone deceptively light.
"Yes, indeed. This is my late sister's son," the woman responded, her grip on his shoulder tightening ever so slightly.
"So, this woman is my aunt," he pondered silently, his mind racing to process this newfound information.
"And the father?" the man pressed further, his grin faltering ever so slightly.
"I never met him, but my sister would speak of him in hushed tones, using the name Elbert," she replied, her voice wavering with evident emotion.
At that, the man exchanged a devious glance with one of his companions, whom he had come to understand were likely little more than bodyguards or enforcers.
Approaching him directly, the man rested a hand upon his chin, easing his face up to get a better look, as if he sought to decipher the entirety of his being through sheer force of will. "How old is he?" the man asked his supposed aunt, his grip surprisingly gentle despite his unsettling demeanor.
"Hubert has seen nine namedays, Lord Baelish, as of a few days ago," she responded, her voice regaining its composure. "He was born in 281 AC."
"Baelish... I know that name," he thought, feeling a sudden rush of recognition course through his very being. It raced through his head before it finally hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. He was no longer on Earth; he was in Westeros in the year 290 AC. And the man standing before him was none other than Petyr Baelish, a man—or should he say character—whom he deeply reviled from the stories.
Thinking as clearly as he could through the haze of disbelief and dawning realization, he knew this couldn't possibly be real; it had to be some sort of vivid dream. But at the same time, a part of him, a growing and insistent part, knew that it was indeed true, which filled him with a sense of trepidation he had seldom experienced before.
Littlefinger released his hold upon his face and beckoned for them both to follow him, saying simply, "Lord Arryn wishes to meet you," before that unsettling grin overtook his face once more, seeming to stretch impossibly wide. "Great," he thought, his heart sinking, "just what I need, to be thrust into the falcon's nest."
One of Littlefinger's men helped him onto the back of a massive destrier. He felt no shame in requiring such assistance, considering he now inhabited the body of a mere nine-year-old. And with that, their modest procession set off, heading north through the bustling streets of Gulltown.
They soon arrived at their destination, a large three-story building that towered above the surrounding modest dwellings. While its walls were still made of simple clay, its roof was sturdily constructed of cobblestone rather than thatched straw. With a helping hand, he dismounted from the imposing horse, catching sight of a roughly hewn wooden sign swaying by the entrance, bearing the faded name "Winged Rest Inn."
As his aunt and he followed Baelish inside, they climbed a set of stairs hidden discreetly behind the bar, entering into an opulent space that reflected Littlefinger's refined taste for luxury. Situated overlooking the bustling harbor, the lavish office boasted large windows framed by rich velvet curtains, allowing plentiful natural light to pour in. The decor was lavish yet tasteful, with plush velvet armchairs, intricately carved wooden furniture, and gilded gold accents throughout.
He was shocked by the conspicuous display of wealth surrounding him; he had no idea this weaselly man had already been embezzling funds and amassing riches at this point in the story.
No sooner had Baelish settled behind his ornate desk than a knock sounded from outside, and an older man entered, halting when he spotted him. "You look just like Elbert," the man said, his voice thick with emotion as tears welled in his eyes, no doubt struck by his uncanny resemblance to his late nephew.
He quickly realized this man was none other than Jon Arryn himself. Jon looked through his damp eyes at Littlefinger and said, "Please tell me he is trueborn," a subtle plea in his voice, to which he received a simple shake of the head. Jon then turned towards his aunt, asking his name in a gentle tone. "His name is Hubert," she responded, her own eyes glistening.
Jon Arryn walked over to him, knelt down to meet his gaze, and a look of pure joy spread across his weathered features. "How would you like to be my page, young Hubert Stone? To serve House Arryn and travel with me to the capital?"
At that moment, Baelish voiced his concern, feigned deference dripping from his tone. "You cannot seriously be considering taking a bastard as your personal page, my Lord Hand?" One eyebrow raised in mock surprise.
"I certainly am, Petyr. The boy is my kin, and he will accompany me to King's Landing upon my return, if he accepts the position," Jon declared firmly, brooking no argument.
Without hesitation, he quickly exclaimed, "Yes! Yes, I accept!" He would do anything to escape Gulltown and Littlefinger's clutches.
Lord Arryn grinned at his eagerness and pulled him into a heartfelt, if slightly awkward, embrace. He could sense the genuine affection from this man, his newly discovered grand-uncle, and he found himself growing fond of him in return. It occurred to him that he must ensure Jon's survival, even if it meant confronting the threats posed by the cunning Lysa and Littlefinger.
When Jon released him, he rang a bell summoning a pretty red-haired servant girl, a choice that seemed entirely suited to Littlefinger's tastes. Jon instructed her to bring food so they could dine together and become acquainted. To his immense satisfaction, Jon also insisted Baelish leave them in privacy.
"A meal sounds wonderful, my lord," he said gratefully, relieved to be temporarily separated from the loathsome schemer. "Thank you."
Jon smiled warmly at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Please, call me uncle when we're alone," he chuckled, a grandfatherly quality about him. "Technically, you should call me grand-uncle since I'm your father's uncle. But that would make me sound much too old."
"Uncle it is then," he agreed with an enthusiastic nod and a faint smile, some of the tension easing from his small frame.
As they conversed over their meal, he learned much about his father Elbert Arryn and his family from the doting Jon Arryn, some of which he already knew from the tales. He also discovered intimate details about Elbert's character that Jon didn't fully understand or approve of.
Elbert, it seemed, was impulsive yet very reserved in personal matters, never pursuing romantic relationships. To the extent that his uncle had wondered if he preferred men's company. One could only imagine Jon's astonishment when the scheming Littlefinger revealed he, Elbert's secret bastard son, existed.
It turned out Lord Arryn had planned to head for the Eyrie that very day to fetch his wife Lysa, before returning to King's Landing to resume his duties. Despite his sudden appearance, Jon now intended for him to accompany them, determined to keep his newfound kin close.
Just then, his aunt Maris, whose name he had only recently learned, moved to retrieve the locked chest she had brought with them earlier, though he hadn't realized it at the time. Jon's eyes lit up when she set it on top of the desk. They both fell silent, allowing her to speak.
"This chest belonged to your father," she said, her voice tinged with emotion. "He gave it to your mother, and it came into my possession after her death two years ago from the bloody flux."
"If you are to be parting from me, I feel it's time for you to learn its contents," she declared solemnly.
With that, she produced a large silver key that had been hanging around her neck and handed it to him. He sat in stunned silence for a moment before rising from his seat to unlock the ironwood chest. He noticed Jon standing nearby, clearly as eager as him to discover what else his father had left behind. Carefully inserting the key into the iron lock, he heard a soft click as he turned it, and with some assistance from his uncle, they lifted the heavy lid.
The contents left them both astonished. Delving inside, he first retrieved a quiver of arrows and a sturdy horse bow, crafted from a supple white wood he could only assume was weirwood, the remarkable tree species found in the North.
Next, they uncovered a bastard sword, which required Jon's assistance to lift from the chest due to its weight and size. Placing it onto the desk, he grasped the hilt and drew it from its sheath. The grip was wrapped in black leather, the crossguard made of polished bronze adorned with dark iron studs, while the pommel featured a bronze circle with a large piece of onyx-colored glass inlaid at its center. He couldn't help but wonder if this was his first encounter with the fabled dragonglass. The rain guard was bronze, and the fuller that stretched almost the entire length of the blade was silver and intricately carved with ancient runes. The edge and point of the blade were as black as night, with ripples characteristic of legendary Valyrian steel.
As his uncle gazed at the blade in surprise, he uttered a single word, "Lamentation." So, this was the lost ancestral blade of the noble House Royce. How on earth did it come into the possession of his new father, Elbert Arryn, he pondered. Both turned to his Aunt Maris for answers, as she obviously knew more than she had revealed to Baelish.
"He loved your mother dearly, young Elbert did," she began, her voice gentle but somber. "He entrusted the chest to her care before embarking on his journey with that fool, the wild wolf. When your mother Cissy informed him of her pregnancy, he was overjoyed and promised to return to marry her after locating Lyanna Stark."
"I... I never knew any of this," Jon stammered, his eyes once again moist with tears, overwhelmed by these revelations about his nephew.
"Elbert was very secretive during his visits. He assumed you wouldn't approve," she said, casting a pitying glance at Jon, understanding the weight of this newfound knowledge.
"And the sword... how?" Jon's voice still carried the weight of these profound revelations.
"Elbert told Cissy that he found it while traveling through the Crownlands with his friend Jeoffrey Mallister as part of what he termed his coming-of-age tour, a concept I must admit I am unfamiliar with," Aunt Maris explained patiently.
"A coming-of-age tour is when young nobles travel the realm at sixteen, visiting many castles to broaden their horizons. I refused to hold one for Elbert, fearing I might lose him as I lost his father. Rash as ever, he vanished one night to seek his own adventure," Jon admitted with a faint, reminiscent smile.
With each mention, he found himself admiring the man his father had been more and more, despite never having the chance to meet him. It was a pity he would never meet his birth mother either. Westeros sure knew how to deliver a cruel blow.
After their meal, the red-haired girl returned to inform his uncle that his bags were packed, the men-at-arms assembled, and the wheelhouse ready for their departure.
As they exited the inn, Jon paused, handing him a leather-bound journal. "It belonged to your father and later to me. I continued where he left off. I thought you might want to read it on our way to the Vale." Unsure of how to express his gratitude, he did what any nine-year-old would do and pulled his newfound uncle into a tight hug.
Stepping into the streets of Gulltown, he observed Arryn men-at-arms loading his chest into the back of an intricately carved wheelhouse. Pausing, he approached his Aunt to bid her farewell.
"Thank you for everything, Aunt Maris," he said, his voice laden with false emotion. "I promise to visit and send money when I can."
She embraced him tightly, tears glistening in her eyes. "Take care, Hugh. I'll miss you greatly."
Assisted by the Warden of the East, he ascended the steps into the wheelhouse, knowing he was ill-prepared for the challenges that Westeros would soon present.
"It's time to go meet the crazy trout, I guess," he muttered to himself, settling onto an Arryn blue cushion, trying to find humor in the situation. Who knows, this might even be enjoyable.