295 AC
The wind that swept across the Eyrie no longer felt cold to Michel Arryn.
It felt like home.
He stood upon a high balcony, overlooking the endless stretch of the Vale—green valleys, winding rivers, and distant villages that now thrived under his rule.
At twelve years old…
He no longer looked like a child.
He stood six feet tall, his frame broad and perfectly built, muscles honed by years of relentless training. His face, sharp and striking, carried a natural nobility that turned heads wherever he walked.
In whispers across Westeros, people had begun to say:
"The most handsome man of House Arryn has been born."
But Michel cared little for such things.
Because what he was building…
Was far greater than beauty.
Steel rang across the training yard below.
Even now, Michel trained daily.
Sword.
Spear.
Horsemanship.
Strategy.
He pushed himself beyond limits no ordinary man could endure.
But strength alone was never his goal.
Power came in many forms.
And Michel intended to master them all.
The Vale had changed.
Not through conquest.
But through knowledge.
Michel had walked among farmers, spoken with laborers, studied the land itself.
And then he introduced something no one in Westeros had ever truly understood.
Crop rotation.
Fields that once grew weak after repeated harvests now flourished with new life.
Different crops planted in cycles.
Soil preserved.
Yields increased.
And alongside it—
Manure fertilization.
Waste turned into strength.
Fields once considered poor now produced abundant harvests.
At first, the farmers resisted.
Then they learned.
And then…
They prospered.
Soon, the Vale produced more food than it needed.
Grain filled the granaries.
Storage houses overflowed.
And for the first time in its history—
The Vale became an exporter of food.
Ships from Essos and Braavos began docking in Gulltown, eager to buy surplus grain.
Gold began to flow into House Arryn.
But Michel did not stop there.
He built business.
Carefully.
Strategically.
Quietly.
He introduced new methods of brewing and distillation.
Beer.
Vodka.
Rum.
Stronger.
Cleaner.
More refined than anything Westeros had seen before.
Soon, taverns from King's Landing to White Harbor spoke of the same thing.
"Arryn drink"
Though many still compared it to the famous Redwyne wines, merchants knew the truth—
This was something entirely new.
Something superior.
And Michel ensured one thing:
Quality.
Consistency.
Control.
Then came steel.
Michel used knowledge from his past life to refine smithing techniques.
Stronger blades.
Sharper edges.
Weapons that resisted rust far longer than any ordinary steel.
Warriors who carried Arryn-forged weapons gained an advantage.
And the realm noticed.
Orders poured in.
But Michel was careful.
Very careful.
He limited supply.
The North received weapons.
The Riverlands—his mother's homeland—received them as well.
The Stormlands were given only small quantities.
But the Westerlands and the Reach?
Denied.
Every time.
"No sufficient production," Michel would say calmly.
A lie.
A calculated lie.
Because Michel understood something most lords did not.
Every weapon you sell… may one day be used against you.
Gold poured into the Vale.
Trade.
Food.
Alcohol.
Steel.
Year by year, House Arryn grew richer.
Until finally—
They stood among the greatest houses in Westeros.
Rivaling even House Tyrell in wealth.
And with wealth came strength.
The Vale's military expanded.
From thirty-five thousand…
To fifty thousand soldiers.
Trained.
Equipped.
Disciplined.
And House Arryn itself maintained a powerful core force.
Twelve thousand standing soldiers.
In times of war—
That number could rise to eighteen thousand under direct command.
The Vale was no longer just defensible.
It was formidable.
But one weakness remained.
The sea.
Michel stood now looking toward the distant horizon.
"The fleet…" he murmured.
The Vale lacked suitable wood for building large warships.
The great forests needed for shipbuilding…
Lay in the North.
Michel's eyes narrowed slightly.
"I will go there… one day."
Because if the Vale was to become truly untouchable—
It needed power on land…
And at sea.
A knock came at the door behind him.
"My lord."
Michel turned.
A servant entered and bowed, holding a sealed letter.
"From Lord Jon Arryn."
Michel took it calmly.
His father.
Still in King's Landing.
Still Hand of the King.
Michel broke the seal and began to read.
His eyes moved quickly across the page.
Then—
He paused.
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
"A tourney…"
He spoke softly.
"In King's Landing."
The letter continued.
Held in honor of Prince Joffrey Baratheon's name day.
Knights from across the Seven Kingdoms would attend.
Glory.
Competition.
Power on display.
Michel folded the letter slowly.
His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass beside him.
Tall.
Strong.
Unshakable.
The boy who once arrived in this world had disappeared.
In his place stood something far more dangerous.
Michel Arryn.
The Demon Falcon.
His eyes gleamed with quiet intensity.
"Perhaps…"
He said softly.
"It is time the realm sees what I have become."
Outside, the winds of the Vale roared across the mountains.
Please send power stones thank you.