The morning sea was calm.
A pale silver stretched across the waters of Gulltown as the ship bearing the falcon banners prepared to depart. Sailors moved with practiced precision, ropes tightened, sails unfurled, and the wind—gentle but steady—promised a swift journey south.
Michel Arryn stood at the edge of the dock.
Beside him, Lord Yohn Royce waited in silence.
Before them, Lord Grafton bowed his head.
"My lord… the ship is ready."
Michel nodded, then stepped closer.
"Lord Grafton," he said calmly, "what happened yesterday…"
His voice lowered slightly.
"…must never happen again."
Grafton straightened immediately.
"It will not, my lord."
Michel's gaze hardened just enough to carry weight.
"Gulltown is growing. Trade is increasing."
"Then your soldiers must increase as well."
"Security must grow with wealth."
Grafton placed a hand over his chest.
"I understand, my lord. I will see to it personally."
Michel gave a small nod.
"Good."
There was nothing more to say.
He turned and walked toward the ship.
Behind him, the banners of House Arryn fluttered in the morning wind.
And soon—
The ship departed.
Seven days passed upon the Narrow Sea.
Seven days of wind, water, and routine.
Michel trained on deck as always.
Practiced with Fly.
Observed the stars.
Planned.
Always planned.
Until finally—
The silhouette of King's Landing rose from the horizon.
Tall walls.
Crowded docks.
The Red Keep looming above it all like a watchful predator.
As the ship drew closer…
Michel's expression shifted.
His nose wrinkled slightly.
Then more.
A familiar stench filled the air.
Rot.
Waste.
Filth.
The smell of a city drowning in its own existence.
Michel exhaled slowly.
"…It hasn't changed."
Yohn Royce glanced at him.
"King's Landing never does."
Michel shook his head slightly.
"This smell…"
His voice carried faint disgust.
"…it clings to everything."
Yohn's tone remained steady.
"This city holds nearly five hundred thousand souls."
He looked out over the crowded streets.
"Peasants do not care about the smell."
"They care only that they have food in their bellies."
Michel said nothing.
But his eyes lingered on the city.
This place… will need to change someday.
The gates of the Red Keep opened.
And there—
Waiting in the courtyard—
Stood his family.
Jon Arryn.
Lysa Arryn.
And a small boy beside them.
Michel stepped forward.
For a moment—
The world quieted.
Then—
"Michel!"
Lysa rushed forward.
She wrapped her arms around him tightly, holding him as if she feared he might disappear again.
"My sweet boy…" she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "You've grown so much…"
She pulled back slightly, her hands moving over his face, his shoulders.
"Are you alright?"
Michel smiled gently.
"I'm alright, Mother."
She let out a breath of relief and stepped back, though her eyes still lingered on him.
Then—
A smaller figure approached.
Michel looked down.
His brother.
Robert Arryn.
Bright-eyed.
Healthy.
Full of life.
So different from the fragile child Michel remembered from another life.
"Brother!" Robert said excitedly.
"I heard you are very strong!"
Michel knelt slightly, bringing himself to the boy's level.
"Is that so?"
Robert nodded eagerly.
"I want to be strong like you!"
Michel's expression softened.
He reached out and lifted the boy effortlessly into his arms.
"You will be," he said warmly.
"Stronger than anyone expects."
Robert laughed, a bright, carefree sound that echoed in the courtyard.
Michel held him close for a moment.
Then smiled.
"I brought you something."
Robert's eyes widened with excitement.
"A gift?"
Michel nodded.
"Yes."
The boy leaned closer, curiosity shining in his eyes.
And for just a moment—
Amidst the politics, the wars, the plans, and the future…
Michel Arryn allowed himself something rare.
A quiet, simple happiness.
Because here—
In this moment—
He was not the Demon Falcon.
Not a lord.
Not a strategist.
Just…
An older brother.
The courtyard of the Red Keep had not yet settled from reunion and warmth when another presence arrived.
Heavy footsteps.
Laughter.
Authority that did not ask—it took.
"Ha! There he is!"
King Robert Baratheon strode forward, his great frame wrapped in royal colors, his voice booming across the stone.
Behind him came Queen Cersei Lannister, graceful as ever, her golden hair shining like a crown of sunlight. At her side walked her three children—
Joffrey, tall for his age, sharp-eyed and proud.
Myrcella, gentle and composed.
Tommen, small and wide-eyed, clinging slightly to his mother's gown.
All of them…
Golden.
Perfect.
Lannister to the bone.
Robert's gaze fell upon Michel, and a wide grin spread across his face.
"Gods!" he laughed. "Look at you, boy!"
He stepped closer, clapping a heavy hand against Michel's shoulder.
"You've grown into a warrior!"
Michel met his gaze calmly.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"I am a warrior, Your Grace."
Then, without hesitation—
"If you wish to test it… you may try."
For a heartbeat—
Silence.
Then Robert burst into roaring laughter.
"Ha! I like him!"
But beside him, Cersei's eyes narrowed.
Cold.
Sharp.
Watching.
Measuring.
She said nothing at first.
But inside—
Something twisted.
She saw it clearly.
The attention.
The admiration.
The way even Robert looked at this boy with approval.
This… Arryn boy.
Stealing the light.
Stealing what belonged to her son.
Her precious Joffrey.
Her voice came smooth as silk.
"The king has no need to prove himself," she said, her eyes never leaving Michel.
"But I can see…"
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
"…you are eager to be noticed."
Michel did not react.
Not to her tone.
Not to her meaning.
But then—
Her eyes shifted.
Down.
To his hand.
To the sword.
Her expression changed.
"This blade…" she said slowly.
"…is that yours?"
Now—
Everyone noticed.
Michel moved calmly.
Without a word—
He drew the sword.
The sound of steel leaving its scabbard cut through the air like a whisper of death.
Dark metal.
Rippling patterns.
Alive with ancient power.
For a moment—
No one breathed.
Even Robert's smile faded.
Jon Arryn stepped forward slightly.
Yohn Royce's eyes gleamed.
"Valyrian steel…" Yohn said quietly.
Robert stared.
"Seven hells…"
Cersei's gaze locked onto the blade.
Greed flickered.
Just for a second.
But it was there.
Michel held the sword steady.
Then spoke.
"A slaver merchant attempted to take people from Westeros."
His voice was calm.
Controlled.
"I stopped him."
Yohn Royce stepped forward, his voice firm.
"The man had captured Westerosi to sell in Essos."
"Lord Michel defeated him and seized his ship."
He gestured toward the blade.
"We found this among his possessions."
Jon Arryn's eyes remained fixed on the sword.
A lost legacy.
A symbol of power.
Returned.
Michel lowered the blade slightly.
"It belongs to House Arryn now."
His grip tightened just enough to show ownership.
"I have named it…"
A brief pause.
"…Fly."
The name lingered in the air.
Light.
But deadly.
Like a falcon in motion.
Robert suddenly laughed again, louder than before.
"Ha! A fine name!"
He looked at Michel with renewed interest.
"A fine blade… for a fine warrior!"