The voyage across the narrow sea had lasted twelve long days.
When at last the ship cut through the morning mist and the harbor of Gulltown appeared, Michel Arryn stood at the bow, watching the city rise before him.
Tall stone walls stretched along the coastline, guarding the largest harbor of the Vale. Hundreds of ships rocked gently in the water, their masts forming a forest of wood and sail. The air smelled of salt, fish, and tar, while the cries of merchants and sailors echoed across the busy docks.
This was the beating heart of trade for the Vale.
The ship finally docked.
Ropes were thrown, sailors shouted orders, and the wooden ramp was lowered to the pier.
Michel stepped down onto the dock, his guards following closely behind.
Waiting for him stood a tall man wearing the blue and red colors of House Grafton.
He bowed respectfully.
"Welcome to Gulltown, Lord Arryn."
The man straightened and smiled warmly.
"I am Lord Grafton. You are most welcome in the Vale."
Michel returned the bow politely.
"Thank you, Lord Grafton."
The lord gestured proudly toward the harbor behind him.
"If it pleases you, my lord, I would like to show you the port of Gulltown."
Michel nodded.
"Of course."
They began walking along the docks.
Ships from across the Seven Kingdoms filled the harbor—merchant vessels from the Reach, fishing boats from the Fingers, and heavy warships bearing the sigils of noble houses.
Lord Grafton spread his arms proudly.
"Gulltown is the largest port in the Vale."
Michel studied the harbor carefully.
"And your fleet?"
Lord Grafton nodded with pride.
"The Gulltown fleet is the fifth largest in Westeros."
Michel glanced at him curiously.
"And who holds the first?"
Lord Grafton answered easily.
"The Royal Fleet of the Iron Throne."
"The Iron Islands fleet comes second."
"The Redwyne fleet of the Arbor is third."
"The Manderly fleet of White Harbor stands fourth."
He paused slightly.
"The Lannister fleet once rivaled ours… but during the Greyjoy Rebellion the Ironborn destroyed much of it."
He gestured toward the ships again.
"So now… Gulltown holds the fifth position."
Michel nodded thoughtfully.
The harbor was impressive.
But his mind was already measuring possibilities.
Shipyards.
Trade routes.
Naval power.
All things that could strengthen the Vale in the future.
That evening, Lord Grafton held a small feast in honor of the young heir.
The great hall of Gulltown filled with music, wine, and the laughter of knights and merchants.
Michel spoke politely with the gathered nobles, listening carefully to every word.
For two days he remained in Gulltown.
Learning.
Observing.
Planning.
Then, on the third morning, the journey to the Eyrie began.
The road leading from Gulltown wound slowly upward into the Mountains of the Moon.
Michel rode at the front of the column with his guards surrounding him.
The air grew colder as they climbed higher into the mountain passes.
Two days passed peacefully.
Then the forest around the road grew thicker.
The towering pines blocked much of the sunlight, casting long shadows across the narrow path.
Suddenly—
Figures emerged from the trees.
Sixteen rough men stepped onto the road, blocking their path.
Their clothes were ragged.
Their weapons crude but deadly.
Michel recognized them immediately.
Mountain clansmen.
Their leader stepped forward, grinning with yellowed teeth.
"Hand over all the gold you carry," he said with a cruel laugh.
"Do that… and we might let you live."
He pointed his axe toward Michel.
"Refuse…"
"And we'll kill every last one of you."
Michel looked at them calmly.
His guards shifted uneasily beside him.
Michel spoke quietly.
"We will not give you anything."
The clansmen burst into laughter.
Michel's voice remained calm.
"I advise you to return to whatever cave you crawled out of."
The laughter grew louder.
The leader sneered.
"So the little lord wants to die."
He raised his axe.
"Kill them!"
All sixteen men rushed forward at once.
Michel's guards drew their swords instantly.
Steel rang through the forest.
The first clansman rushed toward Michel with a war cry.
Michel moved.
His sword flashed.
One clean strike.
The man's head flew from his shoulders before he even realized what had happened.
The body collapsed to the ground.
Michel did not pause.
Another attacker lunged toward him.
Michel stepped aside and cut across the man's chest.
A third came from behind.
Michel spun and drove his blade straight through the man's throat.
Blood splashed across the dirt road.
The battle raged around him.
His guards fought fiercely, though several were already wounded.
But Michel moved through the fight like a storm.
His sword rose and fell again and again.
Each strike precise.
Each movement deadly.
One clansman lost his arm.
Another fell with his skull split open.
Another collapsed with a blade through his heart.
The clash of steel echoed through the mountain pass.
Half an hour later…
Silence returned.
Sixteen bodies lay scattered across the road.
The mountain clansmen had been slaughtered.
Michel stood among them, breathing steadily.
His sword dripped with blood.
Behind him, several guards nursed injuries.
But not a single one had fallen.
Michel wiped his blade clean and sheathed it calmly.
"Treat the wounded," he said quietly.
The guards nodded respectfully.
They had seen it with their own eyes.
The stories from King's Landing were true.
The heir of the Vale was not merely a noble boy.
He was a warrior.
A demon on the battlefield.
Soon the group resumed their journey.
High above the mountains, the legendary fortress of the Eyrie waited.
And Michel Arryn continued riding toward the seat of his house.
Toward the future he intended to build.