298 AC
The Eyrie stood above the world as it always had—untouched by mud, untouched by noise, untouched by weakness.
But even here—
Time had moved.
Michel Arryn sat alone in his solar.
A map lay open before him.
The Vale.
The Riverlands.
The North.
Trade routes drawn like veins across a living body.
One year.
One year since he had ridden into the mountains and ended a war that had outlived generations.
The mountain clans—
No longer raiders.
No longer shadows.
They had become something else.
Controlled.
Bound.
Useful.
Caravans now moved without fear.
Merchants spoke of safety where once they whispered of death.
Gold flowed.
Grain moved.
Steel traveled.
The Vale—
Had changed.
And Westeros had noticed.
"A boy," they had said.
"Fourteen."
"A child solved what lords could not."
Some said it with admiration.
Some with disbelief.
Some—
With fear.
Michel's fingers rested lightly on the map.
This was only the beginning.
A knock came at the door.
Soft.
Measured.
"Enter."
The door opened.
The Maester stepped inside.
Old.
Composed.
But something—
Was wrong.
Michel saw it instantly.
The hesitation.
The weight in his eyes.
"My lord…"
The words came slowly.
"A raven has arrived from King's Landing."
Michel did not move.
"Speak."
The Maester swallowed.
"Your father…"
A pause.
"Jon Arryn…"
The room seemed to grow still.
"…has fallen ill."
Another pause.
Longer.
"And he has died."
Silence.
No wind.
No sound.
Even the sky beyond the window seemed to stop.
Michel said nothing.
The Maester lowered his gaze.
"My lord… I am sorry."
Still—
No response.
Michel's eyes remained on the map.
But they were no longer seeing it.
Not the Vale.
Not the roads.
Not the future.
Only—
A memory.
A man.
Jon Arryn.
Firm.
Wise.
Steady.
The man who had looked at him and said—
"You carry Arryn blood."
The man who had not doubted him.
Who had given him responsibility.
Who had trusted him—
Before the world ever would.
Gone.
Just like that.
No farewell.
No last words.
Only a raven.
Michel exhaled slowly.
Then—
He spoke.
"You may go."
The Maester hesitated.
"My lord—"
"You may go."
The tone was calm.
But final.
The Maester bowed.
Then left.
The door closed.
And Michel Arryn—
Was alone.
For a long time—
He did not move.
The silence pressed in.
Heavy.
But not crushing.
Because Michel did not break.
He never had.
Slowly—
He stood.
Walked to the window.
The Vale stretched below him.
Strong.
Secure.
Alive.
His father had built this.
Protected it.
Held it together.
And now—
It was his.
Not as heir.
As lord.
Michel's hand tightened slightly.
"Poison…"
The word left his lips softly.
Because he knew.
Jon Arryn had not simply died.
Not in King's Landing.
Not surrounded by vipers.
Michel's eyes hardened.
Petyr Baelish.
The name did not need to be spoken aloud.
It lingered anyway.
Because this—
Was no accident.
It was a move.
A piece taken from the board.
Michel turned away from the window.
The boy who had left the Eyrie—
Was gone.
In his place—
Stood something else.
Colder.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
Michel Arryn stood alone in his solar, the letter of his father's death still resting on the table behind him like a silent accusation.
The wind howled beyond the windows, but for once—
It did not calm him.
Because now—
Everything had begun.
"The game…"
Michel whispered.
Not as a question.
As truth.
The game of thrones had started.
He walked slowly toward the window, his reflection faint against the endless sky.
In his mind—
He saw it all.
The death of Jon Arryn was not an ending.
It was the first move.
Soon—
The realm would fracture.
Kings would rise.
Kings would fall.
The War of the Five Kings would begin.
Michel closed his eyes briefly.
He could already see them.
The lion.
The stag.
The wolf.
The kraken.
The rose.
Each one clawing for power.
Each one blind to what truly mattered.
"Let them fight," Michel said softly.
Because their war—
Was not his greatest concern.
He turned slightly.
His gaze shifting north.
Far beyond the Vale.
Beyond the Neck.
Beyond even Winterfell.
The Wall.
The true threat.
"The wildlings…"
They would come.
Driven by fear.
Driven by something they did not understand.
And behind them—
Something far worse.
Michel's voice dropped.
"The White Walkers."
Death that walked.
Cold that consumed.
Not rumor.
Not legend.
Reality.
And in this world—
One thing had already changed.
Michel's eyes narrowed slightly.
Jon Snow.
His squire.
His responsibility.
His piece.
Jon Snow would not go to the Wall.
Not now.
Not yet.
And without him—
The wildlings would not be united.
The North would not be ready.
The Wall—
Would fall sooner.
A small shift.
But enough to change everything.
Michel exhaled slowly.
"I cannot change everything…"
His voice was calm.
Measured.
"But I will not let the world end for their ignorance."
Then—
His thoughts turned east.
Across the Narrow Sea.
To a girl with silver hair and fire in her blood.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Exiled.
Forgotten.
Powerless—
For now.
But not for long.
"She will wake them," Michel murmured.
Dragons.
Real dragons.
Fire reborn into the world.
And when she did—
Everything would change.
Michel's hand tightened slightly.
Because he already had something the world did not.
Two eggs.
Hidden.
Waiting.
His dragons would not come from across the sea.
They would rise—
Here.
In the Vale.
Before the world was ready.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"For once…"
"…I will not be late."
He turned from the window.
The boy who had once trained with wooden swords was gone.
The lord who had united the Vale stood in his place.
But even that—
Was not enough to describe what he was becoming.
Because Michel Arryn was no longer just playing the game.
He was playing beyond it.
[ I was thinking fanfiction on my hero academia]
Please give me power stones and ticket.