The days in King's Landing passed with an ease Michel Arryn did not trust.
Too calm.
Too quiet.
Like the stillness before a storm.
Each morning, before the city fully woke, Michel stood in the training yard of the Red Keep.
Steel met steel.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Across from him stood Ser Barristan Selmy, the White Knight, his movements as precise and timeless as ever.
"Your footing," Barristan said calmly, circling him, "is nearly perfect."
Michel adjusted without hesitation.
Their blades clashed.
Fast.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Barristan struck high—
Michel parried.
Countered.
Pressed forward.
For a moment, even the legendary knight had to step back.
A faint smile touched Barristan's lips.
"You improve faster than any man I have trained."
Michel lowered his sword slightly.
"I cannot afford to be slow."
Barristan studied him.
And said nothing.
Because he understood.
This boy trained not for glory—
But for survival.
When he was not training…
Michel spent his time elsewhere.
In quieter places.
Warmer places.
With his brother.
Little Robert Arryn laughed as he tried to pull back the bowstring.
Too weak.
Too small.
Michel stood behind him, guiding his hands.
"Not like that," he said gently.
"Feel the tension. Let the bow do the work."
Robert frowned in concentration.
Then—
The arrow flew.
Not far.
Not straight.
But enough.
Robert's face lit up.
"I did it!"
Michel smiled.
"Yes."
He placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You will do better next time."
Later, they trained with wooden swords.
Robert swung wildly.
Michel blocked easily, laughing softly.
"Control," he said. "Strength without control is useless."
Robert nodded seriously.
"I'll be strong like you."
Michel looked at him for a moment.
Then said quietly—
"You will be stronger."
A month passed.
And then—
The city changed.
The streets of King's Landing filled with banners.
Colors of every great house in Westeros.
The sound of hooves.
The clash of armor.
The murmur of thousands.
The tourney had begun.
Held in honor of Prince Joffrey Baratheon's name day.
But in truth—
It was a display of power.
Of wealth.
Of pride.
They came from every corner of the realm.
From the Reach, the great house of Tyrell arrived in splendor.
From the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister himself entered the city, accompanied by his brother Kevan Lannister—their presence alone enough to shift the balance of any room.
From the Stormlands came Stannis and Renly Baratheon, opposites in every way.
From Dorne, like a flame in human form—
Prince Oberyn Martell arrived, dangerous and smiling.
From the Riverlands, Edmure Tully came, proud yet untested.
From the North, only House Manderly attended—quiet, watchful, distant.
And among them all—
Michel Arryn walked unnoticed by none.
The Demon Falcon.
The boy who had changed the Vale.
The boy who carried Valyrian steel.
The tourney grounds outside the city had been transformed.
Grand stands rose high.
Colorful tents spread across the fields like a sea of banners.
Knights prepared.
Crowds gathered.
The air itself buzzed with anticipation.
And above it all—
Sat the king.
Robert Baratheon, loud and alive, celebrating his son with unmatched extravagance.
Though the gold was not entirely his.
Much of it…
Came from House Lannister.
Borrowed.
Spent freely.
Because Robert Baratheon did not do things halfway.
The prizes were announced.
And they were enormous.
Enough to tempt even the greatest knights.
Melee Champion — 20,000 gold dragons.
Jousting Tournament
• Third place — 10,000 gold dragons
• Second place — 20,000 gold dragons
• First place — 50,000 gold dragons
Archery Champion — 10,000 gold dragons.
Gasps spread through the crowd.
Even seasoned lords were impressed.
This was no ordinary tourney.
This was a spectacle.
A statement.
Michel stood at the edge of the field, watching.
Knights rode past him.
Some glanced his way.
Some avoided his gaze.
Because they had heard.
Everyone had heard.
The stories.
The whispers.
The truth.
He was not just a participant in this gathering.
He was a variable.
An unknown.
A danger.
Michel's eyes moved across the crowd.
Tywin Lannister.
Olenna Tyrell.
Oberyn Martell.
Varys.
Littlefinger.
All present.
All watching.
All thinking.
Good, Michel thought.
Let them watch.
His hand rested lightly on the hilt of Fly.
The blade hidden…
But never forgotten.
The horns sounded.
Loud.
Clear.
The tournament had begun.
The tourney grounds shimmered beneath the midday sun.
Crowds filled the stands, their voices rising like the roar of the sea. Banners snapped in the wind—lions, roses, stags, suns—every great house of Westeros watching, waiting.
The first contest had begun.
Archery.
A long line of competitors stood upon the field, bows in hand, eyes fixed on distant targets.
Among them—
Michel Arryn.
Tall.
Still.
Unshaken.
A murmur passed through the crowd as he stepped into position.
"The Demon Falcon…"
"Does he shoot as well as he fights?"
High above, in the royal stand, King Robert Baratheon leaned forward with a grin.
"Ha! The boy's competing?"
He laughed loudly.
"I say he wins!"
The courtiers chuckled.
But others—
Watched more carefully.
A horn sounded.
"Archers ready!"
The targets stood at fifty yards.
"Loose!"
A storm of arrows cut through the air.
Thuds echoed as shafts struck wood.
Some hit center.
Some missed entirely.
When the results were called—
Half the competitors were dismissed.
Michel stood untouched.
Calm.
Unbothered.
"Sixty yards!"
The distance increased.
The tension grew.
Again—
"Loose!"
Michel's fingers released the string.
Smooth.
Effortless.
The arrow flew—
And struck the center.
Bullseye.
The crowd stirred.
"Seventy!"
"Eighty!"
"Ninety!"
With each increase, more archers fell away.
With each round—
Michel did not falter.
His stance never changed.
His breathing never broke.
Arrow after arrow—
Bullseye.
Whispers spread.
"That's not luck…"
"He hasn't missed once…"
But he was not alone.
Among the remaining competitors stood a lean man with sharp eyes and steady hands.
A man known across the realm.
Anguy of the Brotherhood.
A true archer.
A master of the bow.
He, too, struck true.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At ninety yards, only a handful remained.
Then—
Four.
Four archers stood on the field.
The crowd leaned forward.
Silence began to fall.
"Ninety-five yards!"
The longest distance yet.
A test of skill.
Of control.
Of nerves.
The wind shifted slightly.
Even the smallest error would cost everything.
The first archer released.
Missed.
Eliminated.
The second—
Hit the outer ring.
Not enough.
Gone.
Now—
Two remained.
Anguy.
And Michel Arryn.