Passion was not a dragon, but she flew with far more grace and speed than any dragon ever could. She silently soared high through the clear blue sky, almost invisible to the naked eye. She made a few pirouettes, clearly enjoying his unusually long moment of freedom, and she seemed almost reluctant as she descended towards him, gliding down slower. Her claws wrapped themselves around his gloved arm without a single screech coming from her beak.

Mychel Arryn stared into her dark, intelligent eyes and dared to caress the back of her bluish black head with a single finger. He smiled as she leaned into it, clearly appreciating the attention.

Falcons could be trained, taught to obey the commands of their masters, but it was a rare thing for such creatures to be loyal and sentimental. Yet Passion had been born and raised in the Eyrie, and even as a chick she had known the pale, black-haired youth that was now showing her affection. Thus she had grown to be both things, a dutiful and amicable companion, who yearned to fly but did not resent her position.

Of all the gifts his father had given him, Passion was the only one that the heir to the Vale had kept. The sole attempt to purchase his love that the young lord had honestly accepted. All else, from the fine armor to the even finer wine, he had given away. The silver and sapphire circlet for his fifteenth nameday now belonged to a farmer at the foot of the Giant's Lance. The sword for his knighthood now rested in a soldier's scabbard in the Redfort. But Passion he had kept, though not to use her for sport.

"You have spoiled the poor beast." Said Lord Andar Royce behind him. Mychel had not seen or heard him enter the High Hall, but he was not too startled. He turned to the older man and away from the wide open Moon Door. The wind blew into his dark tresses, and elicited a small sigh as it raised goosebumps along the back of his neck.

"She's a bird of prey, not a pup." The lord of the Runestone lamented, the cold air of the mountain rustling his cloak. His short, grey hair and thick beard seemed as impervious to it as his hard face. "You've stripped a noble creature of her dignity."

Mychel chuckled, placing his nose against Passion's beak. As he spoke, his voice was as cheerful as usual. "She doesn't mind. And I never enjoyed hawking anyway, so what use would I have for a vicious hunter?"

Lord Andar scoffed with amusement, shaking his head as he took a few steps closer to the youth. His bronze gauntlet firmly stayed on the pommel of his sword, but his free hand he used to straighten the neck of Mychel's feathered cloak. "Someday you're going to need to grow some claws of your own, if you wish to truly earn the name of Black Falcon."

The boy uttered a humph, looking back at the vast landscape through the Moon Door. Passion seemed more insterested in the movement of Lord Royce's fingers, probably wondering if the bronze digits were palatable.

"I won't need them." He said, a sudden smug grin on his comely face.  "Give me just a chisel and some wood, and I'll do wonders."

"Cocky lad." Lord Royce chuckled.

The man finished with his brief fussing, patting the boy on the shoulder. "It's almost time for your father's retinue to leave. Why are you here?"

"I wanted to look through the Moon Door one last time." He answered, leaving unsaid the reason. He had wanted to be alone with his thoughts, let them swirl in his mind in the quiet of the empty High Hall. And he needed the pure, heavenly air that came through the door.

"What is it?"

Mychel did not answer. He caressed the top of Passion's head, and the falcon made a sound almost like a coo. The other sighed.

"The Vale will be safe in your absence. I will make sure of it." Said Lord Andar, closing the Moon Door and barring it in quick motions.

"I should stay nevertheless." Mychel said, walking away to place Passion in her cage. He did so carefully, as always. "There's a lot that could be done, and if father and Ser Harrold are both abroad..."

"You overreach, Mychel." Lord Andar interrupted him. "I will be proud to stand by you when you become Lord Paramount, but I would not let you undermine your father while he still lives."

"I shall be sending you ravens while on the road, then." He said, and his boyish grin widened. "And you shall tell me everything you won't tell my father. If we are fortunate, maybe things will improve while we're gone."

Lord Andar grunted. "You are a stubborn little bird, aren't you?"

"Of course I am, my lord. I was your ward." Quipped the young lord, taking off his falconry glove and grabbing the ornate wood and iron cage. He had made the carvings on the wood himself. They were rather crude and unrefined, which made sense, given that he had made them at the age of twelve.

Lord Andar laughed, joining him as the two walked to the door that led out of the High Hall and into the Crescent Chamber. They passed by the few statues that decorated the hall, made in the same blue-veined white marble as the walls, and Mychel spared them, and his father's weirwood throne, one last look before Lord Andar and him closed the massive door.

"Do try to avoid controversies on this journey, Mychel. The eyes of your father's peers, and of the royal family, will surely be upon you."

Now it was Mychel's turn to place a reassuring hand on the other's shoulder. His grin softened into a small but bright smile as he did so.

"No, Lord Andar. [i]My[/i] eyes will be upon [i]them[/i]... like a falcon's."
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The road to King's Landing had been uncommonly kind to Lord Robin Arryn's retinue. There had been few unexpected threats and obstacles. The Mountains of the Moon had been cleared of most clans' presence, and the passage through the Riverlands, which had caused concern among the Winged Knights, had in fact been quite pleasant. Lord Arryn's heir, at least, had felt as much, largely because he had been able to spend most of it without sharing a single conversation with either of his kinsmen. Instead, the many nights of traveling had been occupied by books he had brought with him from the Eyrie, as well as mornings dedicated to carving small pieces of wood and afternoons enjoyed watching Passion glide through this new, foreign air.

Their arrival at the great city, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, found Mychel tired but not exhausted, and intrigued by sights he had never seen before. This was the first time he set foot in King's Landing, and at once he was fascinated. Though scarred, as all cities were, by impoverished smallfolk and the slums they dwelled in, there undeniably was much life and beauty in it. Not even in Gulltown he had seen such a diverse display of people and goods. And compared to the austerity of the Eyrie, the opulence of the city's greatest structures was striking.

From atop his chestnut courser, dressed in his black feathered armor, Mychel Arryn watched the spectacle with enthusiasm, and cheerfully greeted all those who bid him welcome and blessed him. Their retinue advanced slowly through the crowded streets, which gave him ample time to listen to the strange tongues of foreigners, share a few words with passing hedge knights, bards and merchants, and give what few silver stags he carried with him to beggars and septons. He saw Dothraki riders and Dornish spearmen, and knights with trouts, lions and roses on their armors.

Beside him, his father and Ser Harry also looked on, albeit with far less interest. They had come to this city more than once before, and their thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Mychel purposefully paid them little attention.

Robin Arryn was a man grown now, and much different from the sickly boy Mychel had heard so much about. Yet he was hardly an impressive figure even now. He remained quite thin, and shorter than his own son. His brown hair had grown thin, and his face had grown mousy and plain, with measly whiskers. Though his posture was lordly enough, his large round eyes betrayed his still boyish nature, weak in character and meager in intelligence, insecure and capricious. He sat with noble dignity on his own beautiful destrier wearing an impeccable doublet, but uncertainty was visible on his face.

Ser Harrold Hardyng, although older than his father, was everything that the Lord Paramount of the Vale was not. Handsome even now, with his blue eyes and sandy hair, the years had not diminished him. Tall and muscular, he rode proudly on his own mount, looking every bit like a great knight of the Vale in his falcon-helmed armor. Some said he looked more like Mychel's grandfather than Lord Robin himself did, and Mychel believed them. His smile was charming and his voice was strong, and he had the boastful, glory-hungry spirit of a warrior of legend.

Mychel did not actively despise either of them, but he had not been close to them as a child, and he saw little reason to close that old gap now. On his return from the Runestone, it had taken him a very short time to discover how little he truly shared with his own father, and how little Ser Harry thought of him. Lord Robin had no patience for his son's enthusiastic meddling into his lordly affairs, and did not know how to show what love he had for Mychel. And whatever Ser Harry had seen in him, he had disliked it. Arguments had soon become plentiful and bitter, and the Eyrie had become less of a home and more of a battlefield.

The Vale under them was not a kingdom in shambles. At least not at first glance. Yet Mychel had seen the small cracks, the minor imperfections that were slowly but surely affecting his father's rule. The war with mountain clans was bleeding their house dry, both in coin and manpower, and Lord Robin's taxes, while they kept the Eyrie afloat, left countless farmers on the edge of misery. The prestige of House Arryn's legacy was waning, and a part of Mychel suspected that it would collapse as soon as their bannermen began to lose confidence in their family's name.

Mychel lost himself in those thoughts, his mind traversing from the Vale to this city, considering problems and possibilities, recalling knowledge and raising questions. All the while, the Winged Knights followed the three closely, some saluting the crowds as their horses led them further into the city. The banners of House Arryn, the famous moon and falcon, rippled in the air.
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There were no arguments before the procession, no moments of tension between father and son. They simply made some smalltalk, empty and harmless. Lord Robin asked for his opinion on the city's sculptures, compared the Knights of the Green Hand to his own Winged Knights, and complained about the presence of the 'little man' who he had once wanted to throw through the Moon Door.  Ser Harry did not participate, focused entirely on his knights.

When the time came, they all rode towards the sept and joined the colorful and elaborate procession. This time, both Mychel's father and Ser Harry waved to the crowds along with him. All the while, was admiring the views and, more importantly, he was looking at his fellow lords and ladies, trying to elucidate who they were and remember what he knew about them and their houses. It was almost a game, and one he enjoyed. Some of those in attendance caught his attention more than others, starting with the Targaryens. He had never seen people with Valyrian features, and he found them almost as entrancing as the dragons that accompanied them.

The ceremony itself was a grand and beautiful affair, but Mychel spent much of it looking at the other lords and ladies, and listening to their whispers. There appeared to be conflicts brewing in all the kingdoms, not just the Vale. And he could not help but feel a certain longing when he saw his Tully and Stark relatives, as well as King Jon. He had grown up hearing the tales of their lives, yet he had only seen them a handful of times, and too briefly for his liking.

By the end of the wedding, the heir to the Vale was anxious, expectant and quite ready to explore this little world, so far away from his father's kingdom, and so close to great power.
[hr]
Like the Eyrie itself, the three tents of House Arryn were austere in look. Their blue fabric had few ornaments. What made them a sight to behold was not their opulence, but the military might they displayed. The armors of the Winged Knights that guarded it were perfectly polished, and their weapons looked like they had just been sharpened. Their movements and posture were an example in discipline. Around them were rows of equally well-kept armors and weapons, and a small army of smiths and quartermasters diligently oversaw the preparations for the knights who would participate in the various events of the tourney. On the side of the third tent, cages that held falcons and hawks were neatly lined up, except for one. This one, made of iron and poorly carved wood, sat empty on a table, surrounded by small wooden figures.

The bird that said cage belonged to was within the main tent, perched on her owner's shoulder. She was staring curiously at the loud world outside, and paid no heed to the angry discussion taking place inside.

"You will do no such thing, boy." Growled Ser Harry, his face red as he stood just a few inches away from the object of his wrath. His once pristine armor was splattered with wine. The product of the very recent outburst that had led to this moment.

"Of course I will. My father failed to bring proper gifts for the royal family on this happy day." Said Mychel, calm and smiling. "I don't know who advised him to do so, but I am quite sure that the skulls of a few mountain clan chiefs are not a wedding gift that royalty would accept."

"It is meant to show that Lord Arryn is doing his part in keeping the peace in the realm!" Ser Harry shouted, louder now.

"No, it is meant to show that the great Ser Harrold Hardying likes to boast." Said Mychel, and his smile gained a more visible spark of defiance. "If you wanted to prove my father's ability to maintain order, you would have brought them a peace treaty made with the High Chief. But alas, that treaty does not exist, does it?"

"I am tired of hearing your nonsense about making peace with those wildlings!" Said Ser Harry, his hand menacingly ghosting over the pommel of his sword. "You are a child, and as such you will watch your tongue and stay out of these matters."

"Under threat of what?" Asked Mychel with a chuckle. "If you wish to cross swords, ser, we can have a duel right here, or face one another in the melee or the lists. You are almost certain to win. Although I wonder what the lords of the Vale would think if Robin Arryn's heir were to die by your hand."

"Mychel!" His father spoke up at last, after all but fading into the background. Like Ser Harry, his face had become red as he sat in his chair by the coffer which held the aforementioned skulls. The boy immediately turned his head in his father's direction, as did Passion, fluttering her wings as if in annoyance.

"You do not have the right to make such decisions. Not without my consent." Said the Lord Paramount with pleading eyes. "Nor do you have the right to give away my best falcons."

"Father, do you truly want to embarrass yourself and our house in front of all the lords of the realm?" Mychel questioned him, and he was smiling no longer. "You are a Lord Paramount, the Warden of the East, and you would gift the royal family with the skulls of men whose names they have never heard?"

His father was silent, the uncertainty in his features as plain to see as Ser Harry's barely contained fury. The moment stretched, the three men seemingly holding their breaths as the tension in the air lingered. And then someone sighed.

"I'll be in the lists, my lord." Ser Harry muttered as he walked out, his plate-clad feet stomping on the ground below with terrifying aggression. Just as he crossed the threshold, he gave Mychel a hateful glare from the corner of his blue eyes.

"My son..." His father began, his voice meek and shaken. It was a testament to what maturity he had that he was not in fact trembling in his seat.

"Yes, father?" Mychel said, interrupting him. His voice was warm as usual, but there was a small sharp edge to it.

"Ser Harrold has done a lot for me."

"For himself, my lord. He has done a lot for himself." Said Mychel with a small but meaningful sigh, the same he had made in many similar conversations. A sigh that contained frustration and deep disappointment. "And for the throne he feels entitled to. The one I stole from him the day I was born."

"You dare?" Said Lord Robin as he rose from his seat. "You, my own son, who undermines me at every turn, acting like he deserves to rule while I still live? While I am still lord of the Vale?"

"Well, since my father insists on being a capricious fool of a lord..."

His father's slap resonated through the tent.

Mychel did not look at him. He did not even flinch. He just stayed where he was, feeling the pain on his cheek dwindle.

The two men of House Arryn were quiet for some time, until his father spoke in what was almost a whisper.

"I don't understand you, Mychel." Said Lord Robin. "But alright. They can have my finest birds instead."

When his son turned to him again, he was grinning with plain, pure satisfaction. "A fine choice, my lord."

He left the blue tent in swift strides, walking towards the stables and the lists. All the while, Passion kept herself perched on his shoulder, observing everything around her with as much attention as he was. Mychel took note of every important detail he could find. The tourney was a cacophony of carelessly spread information, even if not all of it was interesting. Knights of houses both great and small prepared on the stables and clashed in the lists, and even those who did not speak told him something. Some were young and ambitious, some were old and arrogant, some were fearful, and some were cheating. And he could see and hear nearby ladies debate the merits of each contestant and which of them would receive their favor. From afar, he saw Ser Harry mounting his horse and putting on his ornate helm, and Mychel silently wished him a harmless but humilliating defeat.

Mychel himself would not joust. He had not done so since his days as a squire, and he understood his own skills well enough to know he would not go far. He was an anointed knight, but he was not keen on living as one. His greatest pleasures were others. His art lacked the prestige of knighthood, but it was safe and intimate and fully under his control, and it did not pose a challenge to his still shy nature.

Just as he was about to go in the direction of the Targaryen tents, another knight caught his eye. A young man with brown curls and golden eyes, sitting atop a dark horse, he wore a beautiful, intricately ornamented armor with an unmistakable theme: golden roses. Truth be told, the symbols of House Tyrell only drew him to the knight half as much as his good looks did.

Mychel raised his arm, and Passion screeched as she moved to perch herself on it, looking at him with what he assumed was mild curiosity. "I ought to introduce myself."

He thought the look on the face of the bird of prey became skeptical in response.

"I am far away from home and I do not enjoy solitude." He thought aloud. "And some pleasant interaction between an Arryn and a Tyrell could only be good for both our houses."

Passion did not appear to be the least bit interested in debating him. In fact, she was now staring at a sparrow sitting on the roof of the stable. Mychel shrugged.

"Very well. Enjoy your hunting." He told her, quickly raising his arm in permission. With another screech, his falcon flew away and towards her target.

Mychel stood out in his feathered black armor, but did not seem to be drawing nearly as many looks as the clashes taking place in the lists. Thus he approached the Tyrell knight with no incidents, nothing that could have further increased the blatant shyness in his smile. Only the sound of Passion catching the sparrow distracted him, and just for an instant. Once he reached the other young man, his smile only grew, even if his confidence did not.

"Pardon me, ser." He spoke, fortunately not as loud as he had feared. "I could not help but notice the fine craftsmanship in your armor. Only a true knight of Highgarden would ride into a joust with such a masterpiece."

He politely bowed his head, hand on his chest. "I am Mychel Arryn."

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