The gleam of Valyrian steel still lingered in the air long after Michel had sheathed Fly.
But not all eyes saw it the same way.
Queen Cersei Lannister watched in silence, her expression composed—perfect, regal, untouchable.
Yet beneath that calm surface…
Jealousy burned.
A quiet, poisonous flame.
Another lord's son… admired.
Another boy… drawing the king's attention.
And now—
A blade.
A symbol of power older than kingdoms.
She said nothing.
But she remembered.
"Come, lad!" King Robert Baratheon boomed, breaking the tension with his usual force. "You are most welcome in King's Landing!"
With that, the royal party moved inward.
Through the gates.
Through the stone corridors.
Into the heart of power—
The Great Hall of the Red Keep.
The hall stood vast and imposing.
Banners hung high.
Torches flickered.
And at its center—
The Iron Throne loomed like a beast of blades.
Robert climbed the steps and dropped into the throne with a heavy exhale.
At his right stood Jon Arryn, calm and watchful.
Below, gathered like pieces on a board, stood the men who shaped the realm:
Stannis Baratheon, rigid and unyielding.
Renly Baratheon, young and charming.
Varys, silent, smiling, always listening.
Petyr Baelish, eyes sharp with quiet amusement.
Michel entered.
All eyes turned.
Michel stepped forward, composed as ever.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly, "I bring a small gift."
Robert leaned forward, curiosity already lighting his face.
"A gift? Now that's what I like!"
Michel gestured.
A servant stepped forward carrying a sealed bottle.
Dark glass.
Refined.
Unfamiliar.
Robert took it himself, uncaring for ceremony.
"What is this?"
Without waiting, he uncorked it and took a deep drink.
For a moment—
Nothing.
Then—
Robert froze.
His eyes widened.
"…Seven hells."
He lowered the bottle slowly, staring at it as if it were treasure itself.
"What in the name of the gods is this?!"
Michel's voice remained calm.
"Our newest creation, Your Grace."
"A refined spirit."
"Whiskey."
Robert took another long drink.
Then another.
A grin spread across his face, wider than before.
"By the gods, lad!"
He laughed loudly.
"This—this is a drink!"
He pointed at Michel, delighted.
"You know exactly what your king needs!"
He lifted the bottle again.
"You've no idea how much I need this… especially after listening to your father's lectures all day!"
Laughter echoed through the hall.
Even Renly smiled.
But Stannis only watched.
Measuring.
Michel spoke again.
"I have also brought six months' supply for Your Grace."
Robert's laughter deepened.
"Ha! Now that's loyalty!"
He raised the bottle in approval.
"You've given me the best gift in this damned city!"
Then Michel turned.
More gifts followed.
Carefully chosen.
Calculated.
A finely crafted Falcon-forged steel sword was presented to Prince Joffrey.
Michel's hands remained steady.
But inside—
He knew.
This boy… will become a monster.
Still—
He endured.
Joffrey took the sword with eager eyes, admiration mixed with arrogance.
"For you, Your Highness," Michel said.
Joffrey smirked.
"It suits me."
For Princess Myrcella, a delicate gift—fine, elegant, worthy of her gentle nature.
For Tommen, something lighter, playful, yet crafted with care.
The boy smiled with pure joy.
A rare innocence in this court.
Then—
Michel turned toward the king's brothers.
Stannis Baratheon.
Renly Baratheon.
"For my lords," Michel said.
Servants stepped forward, revealing Falcon steel armor and blades.
Strong.
Refined.
Superior.
Renly's eyes lit with appreciation.
Stannis studied the weapon silently.
Then gave a short nod.
"Quality," he said simply.
From him—
That was praise.
The hall was filled with approval.
Admiration.
Respect.
Michel had done more than bring gifts.
He had made a statement.
Power.
Wealth.
Control.
But at the edge of it all—
Cersei watched.
Michel stepped back slightly.
His voice calm once more.
"Your Grace… I have traveled for seven days."
"I would take my leave to rest."
Robert waved a hand, still holding the bottle.
"Go, lad!"
He laughed again.
"You've earned it!"
He lifted the whiskey high.
"The best gift I've had in years!"
Michel bowed once.
Then turned.
The chamber was quiet.
Far from the noise of the court… far from the whispers and watching eyes.
Michel Arryn sat alone by the window of his room in the Red Keep, the fading light of evening casting long shadows across the stone walls. The city still smelled of filth and smoke, but here—behind closed doors—there was a fragile peace.
For the first time in days…
He allowed himself to rest.
A soft knock came at the door.
Before he could answer, it opened.
His family entered.
Jon Arryn.
Lysa Arryn.
And little Robert.
Michel stood immediately.
"Father… Mother… you came."
Lysa smiled gently.
"You would have us summon you like strangers?"
Her voice was warm.
"We came to you."
Michel's expression softened.
For all his power… all his plans…
This still mattered.
Jon Arryn stepped forward.
For a moment, he said nothing.
He simply looked at his son.
Really looked.
Then—
"You have done well."
The words were simple.
But they carried weight.
More than praise.
More than pride.
Michel straightened slightly.
"Thank you, Father."
Jon continued, his voice steady.
"Under your hand, the Vale has grown strong."
"Stronger than it has ever been."
He stepped closer.
"It is self-sufficient."
"It is rich."
His eyes held Michel's.
"Equal to the Reach in both gold… and food."
There was no exaggeration in his tone.
Only truth.
Michel inclined his head slightly.
"I only did what was necessary."
But inside—
He knew.
This was only the beginning.
Before more could be said—
A smaller voice broke the moment.
"Brother!"
Michel looked down.
Robert Arryn stood there, eyes bright with excitement.
"You said you had a gift for me!"
Michel smiled faintly.
"Yes."
He reached slowly to his side.
Then—
He drew the dagger.
Dark.
Elegant.
The rippling patterns of Valyrian steel danced across its surface like shadows in motion.
The room fell silent.
Even Jon Arryn's breath seemed to pause.
Michel knelt slightly, bringing himself to Robert's level.
"This," he said gently, placing it carefully in the boy's hands, "is for you."
Robert's eyes widened.
"…It's beautiful."
Michel nodded.
"It is more than that."
His voice softened.
"It is Valyrian steel."
Lysa gasped quietly.
Jon Arryn stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the dagger.
Two.
Now House Arryn possessed two Valyrian weapons.
A sword.
And a dagger.
A legacy reborn.
"What is its name?" Jon asked quietly.
Michel looked at the blade for a moment.
Then spoke.
"Shape."
The word lingered.
Sharp.
Simple.
Deadly.
Robert held the dagger carefully, as if afraid it might vanish.
His face lit with pure joy.
"It's mine?"
Michel nodded.
"It is yours."
Robert hugged it close, then looked up at his brother with admiration that held no jealousy—only love.
"I'll become strong," he said.
"Just like you."
Michel placed a hand gently on his head.
"You will."
Lysa watched the moment with shining eyes.
Jon Arryn stood silent.
But in his heart—
There was pride.
Deep.
Unshakable.
House Arryn was no longer fading.
It was rising.
After some time, they left.
One by one.
The door closed softly behind them.
Silence returned.