The sound of the whip still echoed in Michel's ears.
Sharp.
Cruel.
Unforgivable.
He stood there, eyes fixed on the Essos merchant, and for the first time since arriving in this world…
Michel Arryn felt something close to rage.
Not the wild, uncontrolled kind.
No.
This was colder.
Deeper.
A quiet, burning disgust.
"Explain," Michel said.
The merchant forced a smile, though his grip on the whip tightened.
"My lord… we are merely conducting business."
Michel's gaze did not waver.
"I can see that."
His voice dropped, each word heavier than the last.
"But you seem to have forgotten something."
A step forward.
The air itself seemed to tighten.
"Slavery is forbidden in Westeros."
The merchant opened his mouth—
Then hesitated.
Because someone else had stepped forward.
A man.
Dirty.
Thin.
Eyes filled with fear.
A Westerosi.
Michel turned to him.
"You," he said gently, though his voice still carried command. "Do you work here?"
The man froze.
His eyes flicked nervously toward the merchant.
Fear.
Deep and suffocating.
Michel saw it clearly.
"Speak," Michel said.
The man swallowed hard.
"My lord… he… he took me."
Silence fell.
"Where?" Michel asked.
"…Dragonstone," the man whispered. "Seven days ago."
A pause.
Then the truth came out in a rush.
"He said he would sell me in the Free Cities."
The world seemed to go still.
For a single heartbeat—
Nothing moved.
Nothing breathed.
Then—
Michel drew his sword.
The sound of steel leaving its sheath rang like thunder.
The merchant barely had time to react.
Michel moved.
One clean strike.
A guard stepped forward—
Too slow.
Michel's blade cut through him without hesitation.
"Kill them," Michel said coldly.
That was all it took.
The knights of House Arryn surged forward.
Steel clashed.
Cries filled the air.
The Essosguards tried to fight back—but they were no match.
Not for trained knights.
Not for Michel.
The fight was brutal.
Fast.
Decisive.
Five minutes later—
It was over.
Bodies lay scattered across the dock.
Blood stained the wood.
The merchant stood alone.
Shaking.
Terrified.
Michel walked toward him slowly.
Each step deliberate.
Measured.
"You will not die here," Michel said calmly.
The merchant blinked in confusion.
Hope flickered—
Then died as Michel continued.
"You will be judged."
Michel turned slightly.
"Seize him."
The guards grabbed the man instantly, forcing him to his knees.
"We will send him to King's Landing," Michel said.
"To Lord Stannis."
"Let justice decide his fate."
The merchant screamed, struggling uselessly as he was dragged away.
Michel turned back toward the ship.
"Search it."
His voice was steady again.
Controlled.
The soldiers moved quickly, boarding the vessel.
Minutes passed.
Then—
"My lord!"
A soldier emerged from below deck.
"There are prisoners!"
Michel stepped forward.
"How many?"
"Ten."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"Bring them out."
One by one, the captives were freed.
Weak.
Frightened.
But alive.
Michel watched them in silence.
Then another soldier approached.
"My lord… we found something else."
He carried a heavy chest.
Old.
Dark.
Locked.
Michel stepped forward.
"Open it."
The lid creaked as it was lifted.
Inside—
Steel gleamed.
Not ordinary steel.
No.
This was something else.
Something rare.
Something ancient.
Michel's breath slowed.
Inside the chest lay two weapons.
A sword.
And a dagger.
Both dark as smoke.
With rippling patterns flowing across their surface like living shadows.
Valyrian steel.
For a moment—
Even Michel felt it.
That rare spark of excitement.
Because he knew what this meant.
House Arryn's ancestral blade—
"Falcon"
Had been lost for over a hundred years.
Gone.
Forgotten.
Until now…
Yohn Royce stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the blade.
For the first time, even the stoic lord showed emotion.
"Congratulations, my lord."
His voice carried deep respect.
"House Arryn once again holds Valyrian steel."
Michel reached into the chest.
His hand closed around the sword's hilt.
It was light.
Perfectly balanced.
Alive.
He lifted it slowly.
The blade caught the sunlight, dark and beautiful.
Michel studied it carefully.
Then spoke softly.
"No."
Yohn looked at him.
"This is not 'Falcon.'"
Michel's grip tightened slightly.
"This is something new."
He raised the blade, its edge gleaming like shadow given form.
"A new beginning."
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
"This sword…"
He said quietly,
"will be called Fly."
The wind swept across the harbor.
The freed slaves watched.
The soldiers stood silent.
And in that moment—
The Demon Falcon of the Vale stood holding a weapon worthy of his future.
The sun had begun to set when Michel Arryn returned to Grafton Castle.
The sky burned in shades of crimson and gold, and the harbor below shimmered with the last light of day. Word had already begun to spread—whispers carried faster than ships, faster than wind.
Blood on the docks.
Slavers captured.
Justice delivered.
And something else…
Something far rarer.
Michel entered the great hall in silence.
The doors opened before him, and the murmur of voices slowly died.
Lord Grafton turned—
And froze.
His eyes locked onto the blade in Michel's hand.
Dark.
Rippling.
Alive with a quiet, ancient power.
Beside it, at Michel's belt, rested a dagger of the same make.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Grafton stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper.
"My lord…"
His gaze did not leave the sword.
"…that blade…"
Michel looked down at it briefly.
Then back at Grafton.
"This is Fly."
The name settled into the hall like a quiet storm.
Yohn Royce stepped in behind Michel, his presence firm as ever, though even he carried a hint of pride.
"Valyrian steel," Yohn said simply.
The words alone were enough to stir awe.
Grafton exhaled slowly, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Seven save us…"
He had heard of such blades.
Every lord had.
But to see one…
To see one in the hands of a boy not yet a man—
No.
Not a boy.
Not anymore.
Grafton straightened himself.
His voice regained its strength.
"My lord… this is a treasure beyond measure."
Michel's expression did not change.
"It is a weapon."
His tone was calm.
Practical.
As if he held nothing more than an ordinary sword.
But everyone in that hall knew better.
Michel walked past them, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
He stopped near the center of the hall and turned slightly.
"Lord Grafton."
The lord stepped forward immediately.
"My lord."
Michel's voice was steady.
"Prepare a ship."
Grafton blinked.
"So soon?"
Michel nodded.
"We sail for King's Landing tomorrow."
There was no hesitation.
No doubt.
Only decision.
Grafton bowed deeply.
"It will be done."
That night, the castle did not sleep easily.
Servants whispered.
Knights spoke in hushed tones.
The story had already begun to grow.
The Demon Falcon had struck again.
Slavers destroyed.
Prisoners freed.
And now—
A Valyrian steel blade had returned to the Vale.
Some called it fate.
Others called it destiny.
Michel stood alone on the balcony of his chamber.
The harbor stretched before him, lit by torchlight and the glow of distant ships.
In his hand—
He held the sword.
Fly.
The blade caught the moonlight, dark and beautiful, like a piece of the night itself.
Michel studied it silently.
Then slowly, he swung it once.
The air parted cleanly.
Effortless.
Perfect.
Please give power stone and golden ticket.