Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Red Keep, casting long golden lines across the stone floor.
Michel Arryn slowly opened his eyes.
For a brief moment he forgot where he was. The ceiling above him was not the pale marble of the Eyrie, but the dark carved stone of a royal chamber.
Then the memories returned.
King's Landing.
His father, Jon Arryn, served here as Hand of the King. The royal court, the intrigues, the vipers in silk and gold—this was the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.
Michel sat up quietly.
The sounds of the city drifted faintly through the windows: distant market cries, the ringing of blacksmith hammers, and the endless murmur of thousands of people living beneath Aegon's great castle.
A soft knock came at the door.
Before he could answer, the door opened and Lysa Arryn hurried inside.
The moment she saw him sitting upright, her eyes filled with relief.
"Michel!" she said softly.
Michel smiled warmly.
"Good morning, Mother."
For a second she simply looked at him, almost afraid he might collapse again.
Then her face brightened with happiness.
"You're awake," she said gently, placing her hand on his forehead.
"No fever."
Michel chuckled.
"I told you, Mother. I'm fine."
Lysa sighed with relief.
"Come," she said. "Breakfast is waiting."
The Hand's dining chamber inside the Red Keep was already filled when Michel entered.
The moment he stepped through the door, his eyes widened slightly.
At the head of the table sat a massive man with a black beard and a booming laugh.
King Robert Baratheon.
The king looked exactly as Michel remembered from his old life—broad, powerful, already thick around the waist, yet still carrying the presence of the great warrior who had once smashed a prince's chest with a warhammer.
Beside him sat a woman whose beauty could stop a room cold.
Golden hair.
Emerald eyes.
A smile that never quite reached those eyes.
Queen Cersei Lannister.
In her arms sat a small golden-haired child, barely three years old.
Joffrey Baratheon.
Michel's mind corrected automatically.
Joffrey Lannister.
Standing behind the king in shining white armor was a tall knight with golden hair.
Ser Jaime Lannister.
And beside him stood another knight in the pure white cloak of the Kingsguard.
Older.
Calm.
Legendary.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
Michel walked forward respectfully.
The moment Robert saw him, the king grinned widely.
"Well look at that!" Robert boomed. "The little falcon lives!"
Michel bowed politely.
"I am well, Your Grace. It was only a small fever."
Robert laughed loudly and slapped the table.
"Of course it was!"
He raised his goblet toward Michel.
"You're an Arryn, boy! A falcon!"
Robert pointed at him dramatically.
"And falcons are meant to fly!"
The king burst into laughter again.
Cersei watched Michel carefully before speaking.
"It is good to see you recovered, Lord Michel."
Her voice was smooth and elegant.
Michel bowed again.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Little Joffrey stared at him curiously while chewing on a piece of bread.
The meal passed quickly.
Robert drank wine even though it was still morning.
Jon Arryn spoke quietly with the king about matters of the realm.
Cersei remained composed, observing everything.
Michel said little, listening carefully.
Every word.
Every gesture.
This court was a nest of snakes.
When the meal ended, the royal party began to disperse.
Jon Arryn stood and spoke to the king.
"Your Grace, the training yard is ready."
Robert waved a hand lazily.
"Go on then. Turn the boy into a warrior."
Michel quietly followed his father.
The Red Keep training yard was alive with the sounds of steel striking steel.
Knights sparred under the bright morning sun.
Squires carried shields and practice weapons.
The air smelled of dust, sweat, and iron.
Standing calmly in the center of the yard was Ser Barristan Selmy.
His white cloak moved gently in the wind.
Jon Arryn stopped beside him.
"Michel," Jon said.
Michel stepped forward.
"Father."
Jon gestured toward the white knight.
"Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard."
Michel bowed respectfully.
"It is an honor, Ser."
Barristan inclined his head slightly.
"The honor is mine, my lord."
Jon Arryn continued firmly.
"Ser Barristan will oversee your sword training."
Then he added,
"And Grand Maester Pycelle will instruct you in history, politics, and the duties of rule."
Michel nodded.
"I understand."
Jon Arryn looked at him seriously.
"You are the heir of House Arryn."
"One day you will rule the Vale."
Michel met his father's eyes calmly.
"I will not disappoint you."
Jon Arryn nodded once, satisfied, and walked away toward the Hand's Tower.
Now only Michel and Barristan remained in the training yard.
Barristan walked toward a wooden rack and picked up two practice swords.
He tossed one toward Michel.
Michel caught it smoothly.
The moment his hand wrapped around the wooden hilt—
Barristan noticed something.
The boy's grip.
The balance.
The stance.
Michel's body moved with unnatural ease.
Strength flowed through him—far greater than any child his age should possess.
Five times stronger than a normal human.
His reflexes sharp.
His muscles controlled.
Michel adjusted his footing naturally.
Barristan watched him closely.
Interesting.
"Show me your footwork," Barristan said calmly.
Michel moved.
Light steps.
Balanced posture.
Precise control.
Barristan's eyes narrowed slightly.
Even without training…
The boy moved remarkably well.
The old knight smiled faintly.
"Very well."
Barristan lifted his wooden sword and stepped into position.
"Let us begin."
Michel raised his own blade.
Around them, the sounds of the training yard continued.
But for Michel Arryn, this moment was the true beginning.
The beginning of his training.
The beginning of his rise.
Barristan Selmy nodded.
"Come then, young falcon."
And the first lesson began.