The heir to the Vale chuckled. "Yes, my father was quite fond of the Moon Door in his youth. My grandmother's untimely death made him see the error of his ways, fortunately."

That was a half-true statement. Robin Arryn had in fact continued to use the Moon Door for all manner of crimes, and constantly muttered about using it against all those who disrespected him. He had since refrained, however, from overtly threatening the high lords and ladies with it.

"It would certainly please me greatly to meet your sons, Lord Tyrion, if they possess half the wit you are known to possess." Mychel continued with a wide smile of his own. He gave his surroundings a cursory glance as the Hand of the King spoke of the city. "I was born in a rather austere and lonely castle. So as you may imagine, this great city has made quite an impression on me. Not even Gulltown could hope to boast so much life and beauty. And I can see already that there is depth and complexity to the politics of the court here. Such is seldom the case in the Eyrie. Even in troubled times, the lords and ladies of the Eyrie have the virtue of being quite restrained, devoid of any grand intrigues."

Lord Tyrion's comment about Passion and lions made him laugh out loud, a sound which seemed to annoy the falcon a small bit.

"Falcons do have a certain practicality to them, yes. It is definitely a joyous happenstance that these creatures are the part of our founder's legend that House Arryn has embraced. If we had become obsessed with tales of flying knights, I imagine jumping through the Moon Door would be our own leading cause of death."

The ensuing political conversation was one of the most fascinating and exhilarating ones Mychel had had in months, if not years. He pondered every detail about the state of the realm, and felt a spark of pride as his mind allowed him to peek into that which the Lannister and Tyrell lords left unsaid. Throughout it all, the wine in his cup remained untouched, and Passion all but faded from his thoughts.

Tyrion Lannister proved to be as shrewd as he had been told through the years, with a sharp tongue to match. Listening to him speak, his infamous physique seemed almost irrelevant, forgettable, and it became somewhat difficult to see in him the man once seen as the lecherous Imp, the drinking and kinslaying subject of countless mummers' farces.

Willas Tyrell was another matter entirely. He had wisdom, and now and then Mychel could see the points of his grandmother's legendary thorns, but where Tyrion Lannister was sardonic and rather cynical, Willas Tyrell was kind and caring. He has the same curious gaze Mychel had seen in his own eyes, and it took no effort for him to elucidate that the Lord Paramount of the Reach had noticed something about him. Perhaps rumors about his exploits as a squire had found their way into his ears, or maybe the oft whispered tales of his relationship with Lucas Royce.

This right here, it ocurred to him then, was what he was meant to do. While his father thought only of sitting on his throne and demanding respect, and Ser Harrold obsessed himself with glorious war and chivalry, Mychel would have gladly spent his days occupying himself with these matters.

He could not help but slightly bow his head as the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands praised him.

"It means a lot to hear that from you, my lord." His smile became a toothy grin. "And I will certainly consider joining you at your table..."

He paused for a small but significant moment as he considered Lord Tyrion's second offer. To stay at the Red Keep would be more than an opportunity. Doing so would place him in the vanguard of the realm's politics, make him a part of that spider's web of ever changing alliances and conflicts. The things that he could learn in such a position were beyond his imagination... and he yearned to learn them.

"I shall have to think about it, Lord Tyrion." He answered at last, and a small shadow of doubt appeared on his expression as he realized something. "And I will have to consult with my lord father. I am his heir, after all, and though I might be a man grown, I fear he may be reluctant to part with me."

The words he exchanged with Lord Willas featured fewer elements of politics and intrigue than those he shared with Lord Tyrion. Pleasantries reigned supreme instead. The compliments he showered upon Passion, Mychel accepted them politely. He was not as enthusiastic about falconry, but he understood the appeal as much as any Arryn did.

"I have never been an avid hunter, I must admit, so she and I share a bond of gentle companionship, more than anything else." He said, his smile faltering for a miniscule instant as his pet latched onto the Tyrell lord's arm without so much as a single glance at him. Mychel had heard of Lord Willas' renowned birds, dogs and lynxes. The lords of the Vale who met him were always eager to speak of his hawks and falcons. However, he had never imagined that his ability with beasts would be such. Passion seemed perfectly comfortable on the older man's arm.

The way in which he spoke of Passion's kind was quite telling. It showed beyond any doubt that, beneath the finery and politeness, there lied a very intelligent and skillfull man who treasured certain kinds of knowledge and could apply that knowledge with ease. And he was charming when he did so. Now Mychel understood why, despite everything, the Tyrells were still such a beloved house.

He greeted Passion back with a chuckle and a soft caress. "As I said, I am not much of a hunter... but I would be honored, if circumstances allowed it, to have you show me the potential of my precious friend."

[hr]

It did not escape Mychel's notice, as he rejoined his kinsmen within the Red Keep, that many prominent figures had vanished from the festivities, including the king and queen. The halls of the great castle were filled with smalltalk as well as substantive whispering, and some of those whispers helped shed light on what Mychel knew would most likely be the cause of those departures.

The king himself had been attacked in the midst of the tourney by men of the Stepstones. Whatever their motives had been, this had not been a random, inconsequential incident. Something was afoot, and the Small Council was meeting to discuss it.

Beside him, the Lord Paramount of the Vale and the commander of the Winged Knights spoke to one another with undeserved pride. They seemed to believe that their shallow conversations with other lords had given them some manner of advantage for future dealings. It tempted Mychel greatly, made him want to step in and steer the two older men towards a better, less foolish course, but he could not allow himself to do so. Mostly out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

He announced that he would join Lord Tyrion at his table as nonchalantly as he could muster, although beneath that façade he was smirking with satisfaction. Much though he might have enjoyed drinking and feasting with the other men and women of the Vale, while his interactions with them were generally simple and pleasant, they were nothing that piqued his deeper interests.

His father was predictably offended, but had the sense to not cause scandal. He threw a handful of feeble protests at his son, with Ser Harrold serving as his chorus, yet made no effort to halt him as he left them.

The ensuing feast was one of the most wonderful spectacles Mychel had ever seen. As he sat among Lannisters, he basked in every proudly displayed luxury, relished every exotic delicacy, and lost himself in the performances taking place around him. He had seen great festivities, but never something as lavish and massive as this.

Lord Tyrion continued to fascinate him with his tales and observations, and Mychel found his children likeable enough as well. Nonetheless, his attention strayed over and over to the cacophony of color and music that filled the rest of the hall.

His amazement at the sights and sounds that surrounded him, however, did not keep him from musing about all he had learned, and making a decision regarding Lord Tyrion's offer. As their conversation ebbed and flowed, he looked for a void in their conversation that would enable him to answer, and once he found it, he did so in a sharp but warm voice.

"My lord, you mentioned that, if I were inclined to stay at the Red Keep, arrangements could be made." He said, putting aside his cup of Imp's Delight. "If you believe it will not pose any sort of inconvenience, I happily accept your offer."

He gave a small laugh. "But I would advise you to let me tell my father. He may try to reenact his attempt on your life if you tell him yourself."

When the bedding came, he joined the other lords in leading the bride to Maegor's Holdfast. He mostly kept his hands to himself, happy to laugh along with the others and only provide a little bit of help with the more troublesome parts of Julianna's attire. He allowed himself to glance at the increasingly undressed groom, but mostly just let himself be carried away by the rambunctious event.

[hr]

The attack on the Red Keep found Mychel in the midst of very light sleep, his hand clutching his Talon beneath the pillow as the first scream faintly resonated. All was dark, but hardly lifeless. Passion was awake as well, and she seemed irritated and confused but alert in her cage. Both their movements were sluggish as Mychel rose and Passion shook her wings.

The terrible sounds from outside that followed that first scream quickened them. In the darkness, Mychel reached for his leather armor, lying discarded at the foot of his bed, and searched for his bow and arrows. He dressed swiftly, almost tripping as he tried to put his boots on standing up, but kept his balance and, once ready, proceeded to open Passion's cage. She flew out and landed on his shoulder with a loud screech. Whatever awaited them outside, it had her on edge.

He ran towards the walls with practiced agility, dodging the various people in his way while Passion soared above, screeching still. Several Winged Knights soon marched beside him, and though it was plain to see that many of them had put their armors on in a rush, their steps were as decisive as always, and their grips on their weapons were tight.

His father was nowhere to be seen, but Ser Harrold was with them, leading the men like a proper valiant knight of the Vale.

His first sight of the horrifying creatures assaulting the keep paralized Mychel for a brief but painful moment, and gave Ser Harrold pause. But once that primordial shock faded, the men of the Vale became once more what they were known for throughout the Seven Kingdoms: a formidable army, impeccable in their motions and organized with great precision.

"Winged Knights, as high as honor!" Shouted Ser Harrold as he led a contingent of swords and pikes towards the advancing abominations, leaving the rest to join the soldiers of the Reach and form a defense. Mychel, feeling courageous and just a little bit foolish, followed his kinsman into the thick of battle.

His arrows flew with as much precision as they needed to have, given the size and density of the advancing horde of monsters. He aimed at anything inhuman that moved, and prayed that no humans unwittingly walked right into his path. As he moved forward with the rest, his bow gave way to Talon, the Valyrian steel cutting through the repulsive creatures within reach with ease. The Winged Knights, however, got most of the kills. Using their shields to form an impromptu wall, they pushed and stabbed at their foes.

High above, Passion seemed to be enjoying herself far more than she should have, gouging out the eyes of the flying monsters and their riders with abandon, too small to be caught. She was fast, tireless and without mercy, a true bird of prey.

Mychel suddenly saw that some of the invaders were flanking the defenders on the wall, on their way towards Maegor's Holdfast. Ser Harrold had disappeared form his view, and he received no response as he shouted his name.

Instead, drawn by the sound of his voice, one of the creatures lunged at him, tackling him to the ground and slashing at him with a strange blade. It cut a long but superficial wound across his neck and jaw, and as he tried to block with his gloved hand, the creature stabbed, the blade splitting apart leather and skin. The Black Falcon yelled in pain and fury, and with a vengeful growl he lashed out with Talon. The dagger caught the creature in the eye.

Mychel pulled back and thrust again, this time plunging Talon deep into the fiend's throat. With a sideways cut, he slit it wide open. Its blood flowed out of the wound like a pungent fountain, but he did not pause to retch. He thrust once more with what strength remained in his arm, this time straight at the fiend's face, and did not stop until Talon's whole blade was lodged within its skull.

The fiend slumped to the side with a series of pathetic gurgles, and Mychel rose to his knees, gasping loudly. He removed the bloodied dagger from the creature's corpse, and let out a screech, not unlike Passion's, as he struck at another one, eviscerating it. And as he readied to attack again, a pair of Winged Knights moved to stand between him and the apparently unending wave of monsters from the deep. The sight of their falcon-like helmets removed him from his blood-fueled reverie, and he look around himself, breathless, trying to elucidate how the battle was faring.

Seeing that the wave of invaders was still moving in a flanking motion, Mychel shoved one of the knights in front of him, prompting the man to look back at him.

"We have to rally some men and cut them off before they flank us and reach the holdfast!" Shouted the Black Falcon, and he turned to a small group of knights standing behind him. "Bring only your swords! We need to outpace them!"

A few of them looked willing, but the general feeling appeared to be reluctance. Even if he was their liege's son, they were unsure as to whether they should obey Mychel's order. In any other circumstances, he would not have blamed them for it.

In these circumstances, however, their reaction only enraged him.

"Listen to me, you bloody fools!" He said, interrupted by one of the creatures breaking through the two knights guarding him, only to end impaled on his Talon. He turned back to the others with his pale, pretty face splattered with its disgusting blood. "I'm here because it's my duty! Because honor commands it! And if I die because you dithered while I was fighting for those in peril, you will have dishonored yourselves and the people of the Vale! So drop your shields, grip your swords tight, and fight with me, your fellow falcon!"

That spurred the lot of them into action. With unexpected cries of "Black Falcon!"and "Mychel!", the handful of Winged Knights raised their swords and charged with him down the pathway, away from the walls and towards the holdfast.

Bow and arrow back in his hands, Mychel shot at every creature he could. The spirit of battle pushed him forward like an unrelenting wind, and as he fought he also commanded the men. Even without the time to think, he did not hesitate as he led them through the Red Keep. He soon saw that the creatures were approaching the throne room, currently guarded by an assortment of men and women, mostly from the Reach, led by Ser Ellion Tyrell.

Mychel allowed himself a flickering grin. He had an idea.

"Drive these fiends into the pikes!" He told his men, and then he looked at Ser Ellion and raised his voice. "Spread your people into a curve! Surround them!"

In that single instant, Mychel Arryn understood why some men enjoyed war so much.