The echoes of celebration faded slowly.
What had begun as thunder—cheers, laughter, praise—became murmurs, then whispers, then silence.
Night settled over King's Landing, heavy and warm, the scent of the city lingering like something that refused to be washed away.
But inside the Red Keep—
The game did not sleep.
Michel stood alone in his chamber.
The crown of the day had long been set aside.
The armor removed.
The sword Fly rested nearby, silent, waiting.
He looked out over the city.
Torches flickered below like scattered stars.
Five hundred thousand souls.
Living.
Struggling.
Enduring.
"This place…"
he murmured quietly,
"…is not ready."
Not for what was coming.
Not for what he knew.
A soft knock broke the silence.
"Enter."
The door opened.
Jon Arryn stepped inside.
For a moment—
Neither spoke.
Father and son.
Standing across from one another.
"You've changed the realm today," Jon said finally.
His voice was calm.
But heavy with meaning.
Michel turned slightly.
"Only the beginning."
Jon studied him.
Long.
Carefully.
As if trying to measure something that could no longer be contained.
"What do you want now?" Jon asked.
Michel did not hesitate.
"I want to travel."
Jon's brow furrowed slightly.
"Where?"
Michel stepped forward.
"The Riverlands."
"My mother's home."
A brief pause.
Then—
"The North."
The word lingered.
Heavy.
Cold.
Distant.
Jon's expression shifted.
"The North is far."
"And not like the south."
Michel nodded.
"I know."
His eyes did not waver.
"I need to see it."
"To understand it."
"To build alliances,
Jon was silent.
Because he heard what was not spoken.
Preparation.
Positioning.
War.
"You speak like a man twice your age," Jon said quietly.
Michel gave a faint, almost distant smile.
"I have to be."
The silence returned.
Longer this time.
Jon walked slowly toward the window, standing beside his son.
He looked out over King's Landing.
Then spoke.
"You've already done more than any heir should be able to."
"The Vale is strong."
"The realm knows your name."
He turned.
"And now you wish to walk into lands that are not yours."
Michel met his gaze.
"I wish to ensure they will not become my enemies."
That answer—
That answer settled everything.
Jon Arryn exhaled slowly.
Then—
Nodded.
"You have my permission."
Michel inclined his head slightly.
"Thank you, Father."
But Jon was not finished.
"You will not go alone."
"Take men."
"Take knights."
"Take banners."
Michel nodded.
"I will."
Jon stepped closer.
Placing a hand on his shoulder.
Firm.
Proud.
"Remember this," Jon said quietly.
"No matter where you go…"
"You carry the Vale with you."
Michel's voice was steady.
"I know."
For a brief moment—
They stood like that.
Not as lord and heir.
But as father and son.
Then Jon turned.
And left.
The door closed softly behind him.
Michel looked once more at the city.
Then beyond it.
Far beyond it.
The Riverlands.
Green.
Fertile.
Unstable.
The North.
Cold.
Hard.
Unforgiving.
Two lands.
Two futures.
Two pieces of a coming war.
Michel's hand rested lightly on the hilt of Fly.
His eyes sharpened.
"This is the next step."
Behind him—
The room was quiet.
Before him—
The world waited.
And far in the distance—
Beyond the Wall—
Something ancient stirred.
But Michel Arryn was already moving.
Already planning.
Sorry this chapter is short.