The final moments of the terrifying battle were but a whirlwind of scents, sounds, sensations and colors to the wounded and exhausted Mychel. As his wrist bled profusely, he kept on fighting alongside his fellow Valemen with blind determination, the faint memory of where he was, and where his foes where, guiding him where his eyes could not. Time itself seemed to distort as the slaughter reached its end. He did not give chase when the creatures from the sea fled back to whence they came, and instead he remained with his father's knights, shouting their victory to the winds simply because he felt it necessary. At that moment, even the smell of the battle, the spilled blood both human and monstruous, became almost imperceptible to him. He felt the hands of the Winged Knights as they all but dragged him into the Throne Room, led by a Corbray knight whose named escaped him. He understood the words, remembered that his pain was because he had been hurt, and followed without a word.

Healers rushed to the heir of the Vale as he sat amongst his fellow lords, eager to be the ones to save the young Arryn's hand from infection or amputation. Even in his lingering haze, Mychel knew that the fate of his hand would be revealed in time. Even the finest maesters could fail, and seemingly healed wounds could suddenly betray the person and take more than a mere hand. A panic seized Mychel while one of the healers prodded the deep cut, showing that the clawed monster's attack had reached deep into his flesh, yet he refused the milk of the poppy when a maester offered it. His judgement had been clouded long enough since the battle's end, and he desperately wanted, needed, some clarity.

His father's look wavered between paternal concern and paternal anger. He feared for his son's health, but resented his decision to fight. He muttered something or other to reflect those blatant thoughts, but Mychel paid them no heed. As the fog in his mind dissipated, his attention turned to his surroundings, his curiosity now a comfort from the pain and fear over his hand's undetermined fate. The casualties from the battle appeared minimal, at least among the nobility there present.

When the king spoke to the gathered lords and ladies, Mychel's thoughts were as clear as the blue sky above the Eyrie, his wrist safely wrapped in fresh, pristine cloth, the skin and flesh beneath itching from the poultice the healers had applied to it. He briefly pondered each and every announcement that the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms made, looking at the recipients of new honors, adding faces to the memory of their names and titles. So focused was he on that endeavor, that the announcement made concerning himself almost passed him by. As he heard it, he was unable to restrain a small gasp.

[i]A Knight Herald, a man of peace, or war if needed be, in the service of Lord Tyrion...[/i]

A possibility he had not considered entirely plausible before, an opportunity the likes of which he had craved for years, now was a tangible reality. No longer would he be merely an heir, spending years doing nothing but wait for his father's passing.

Mychel bowed enthusiastically to the King and Queen, and spared not a glance for his lord father. Whether his father consented to it or not was immaterial, as far as he was concerned. Defiance and manipulation had gotten him this far, and would carry him even further if needed be.

The Knights of the Vale cheered their future Lord Paramount, and he joined them in their joyous display, happily congratulating the valiant Ser Artys and nodding in Ser Harrold's general direction.

If ambition had been a bright spark in Mychel's spirit before, now it was dragonfire, drunken on the power and prestige of his new position, fueled by the knowledge that he would be serving under a man he actually admired, one of the most formidable minds in the Seven Kingdoms. The things he would be able to achieve as a Knight Herald, outside of the Eyrie's halls and gardens, seemed limitless, and he was eager to begin this new era at once.

Thus he immediately answered the summons to the Tower of the Hand, offering but a perfunctory farewell to his father and Ser Harrold. As it turned out, persuasion was unnecessary. Both men could be foolish, but they knew better than to refuse the Iron Throne. He departed the Throne Room in a new daze, this one born from excitement and expectation.

[hr]

The Tower of the Hand was not as ostentatious as other constructions  in the Red Keep, but then again it was not luxurious decorations what made it an awe-inspiring place. Because, contrary to the great halls and royal chambers, filled with spoils of war and art and finery, the Tower of the Hand was filled with wisdom. Scrolls and tomes covered almost every surface, creating one of the largest collections of information the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen, surpassed only by the Citadel in Oldtown. He saw on one table stacks upon stacks of letters and parchment which contained the truth of the Iron Throne's finances, a subject in which even Lord Paramounts were often extremely uninformed. On another table, a tome on Lysene history awaited alongside a thoroughly embellished telling of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

More important to Mychel, however, was the man who inhabited the tower. Lord Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King, received Artys and him with a smile, one to which Mychel responded in kind with a bow. He listened intently as the man spoke, his mind immediately beginning its usual labor, remembering past history and details, strategizing, until the newly named Knight Herald forged a fully formed idea that traveled to the tip of his tongue as soon as it was finished.

"I say, my lord, that this is one endeavor I shall be glad to take part in. Many lords of the Vale disagree, but the only viable solution to the problem of the mountain clans is peace. The continued aggression of the Knights of the Vale only fuels the clansmen's bloodlust." Mychel spoke with certainty and clarity, his smile diminished but still lingering. Thoughtlessly he touched the wound on his wrist through the bandage, perhaps reassuring himself that it had not been that grave an injury, that his hand would survive.

"I would, however, refrain from approaching the Mountain King himself. I have not met him, but from what I have heard, he is nigh impossible to persuade, specially when it comes to the crown he thinks himself entitled to. His bannermen, the lower chiefs, are the ones who we should appeal to. They follow him largely because they feel unsafe in solitude, easy targets for our overzealous knights. Remove that fear, offer them security, and they may, at the very least, waver in their resolve. And without their loyalty, the Mountain King's strength vanishes almost in its entirety. The men he personally commands are but a fraction of all his forces."

He grinned and bowed his head.

"In short... Yes, my lord, I will go with you as part of the royal delegation and help make peace with the mountain clans, if you will have me."