297 AC
Time had not passed gently.
It had carved.
In the Vale, the winds no longer whispered—they carried iron.
Gulltown had transformed into something unrecognizable from what it had once been. Where traders once haggled over coin and spice, now shipwrights hammered day and night, shaping timber into war.
Three hundred ships.
Not a boast.
A reality.
Longships—sixty of them—lean and hungry, built to strike like falcons diving from the sky.
A hundred war galleys, steady and balanced, meant to hold the line and break it.
And the rest—smaller vessels, swift and sharp-eyed, meant to watch, to scout, to control.
From the cliffs above the harbor, Michel Arryn watched them.
Silent.
Still.
This was not ambition.
This was inevitability.
"The sea is no longer a weakness," he said quietly.
Behind him stood Lord Yohn Royce, arms folded.
"No," Royce replied. "It is now a weapon."
Michel did not smile.
Because weapons were only useful when used.
Jon Snow
Not far from the docks, steel rang in the cold morning air.
Jon Snow moved like someone reborn.
Gone was the uncertain boy of Winterfell.
Gone was the quiet bastard standing behind others.
Now—
He stepped forward.
His blade cut clean.
Precise.
Controlled.
Michel parried.
Easily.
Then stepped in—
And stopped his sword at Jon's throat.
Again.
Jon did not lower his gaze.
Did not flinch.
"I was too slow," he said.
Michel shook his head slightly.
"No."
A pause.
"You hesitated."
Jon exhaled.
Slow.
Measured.
"I won't next time."
Michel studied him.
Then nodded.
"Good."
Training resumed.
Harder.
Faster.
Between strikes—
Another lesson.
"Valar morghulis."
Jon repeated it, the words unfamiliar but firm.
"Valar morghulis."
The language of old Valyria.
The language of power.
Of death.
Of truth.
Jon learned quickly.
Because he understood something instinctively—
This was more than training.
This was preparation.
King's Landing
Far to the south, beneath heat and stone, another kind of battle unfolded.
In the chambers of the Red Keep, a letter lay open.
The seal of Casterly Rock broken.
Its meaning clear.
Cersei Lannister stood before it, her face pale with fury.
"I will not allow it."
Her voice cut through the room like glass.
"My daughter will not be given to some northern savage."
The word hung there.
Ugly.
Sharp.
Nearby, Jaime Lannister leaned casually, though his eyes were anything but careless.
"You refuse Father?" he asked lightly.
Cersei turned on him.
"I refuse weakness."
Her hands tightened.
"First the Vale grows rich."
"Then the Riverlands follow."
"And now the North binds itself to them."
Her breath came sharper.
"And he expects us to hand over Myrcella as well?"
Jaime said nothing.
Because for once—
He had no easy answer.
Later, in the throne room—
The matter reached Robert Baratheon.
He listened.
Half-interested.
Half-bored.
"Marriage?" Robert scoffed, taking another drink.
"Gods, must everything be marriage wittwo years
Power never grows quietly.
It draws eyes.
And where eyes gather—
Daggers follow.
The first attempt came on the mountain road to Runestone.
A narrow path, carved into stone and sky, where one wrong step meant death long before any blade struck.
The wind howled.
The cliffs waited.
Michel rode at the center of his column.
Calm.
Unaware—
To anyone watching.
Then—
Arrows fell.
From above.
From hidden ledges.
From shadows that should have been empty.
Men shouted.
Horses reared.
Steel flashed.
Vale knights closed ranks instantly.
Shields rose.
Blades answered.
But Michel—
Did not panic.
He moved.
Precise.
Measured.
One arrow—
He caught it on his blade.
Another—
Missed by inches as he shifted in the saddle.
"Forward," he said.
Not loudly.
But enough.
The formation broke through the ambush.
Climbed.
Pressed.
And when they reached the ridge—
The attackers were already fleeing.
Mountain clans?
No.
Too organized.
Too clean.
Michel watched their retreating figures disappear into stone and fog.
"They weren't trying to win," he said quietly.
Lord Yohn Royce stepped beside him.
"They were testing."
Michel nodded.
Testing him.
Poison
The second attempt was quieter.
More patient.
More… civilized.
Wine.
Served in silver.
Poured by trusted hands.
Michel drank.
Nothing happened.
Later—
The servant was found.
Dead.
Poisoned.
The irony did not escape him.
Another attempt.
Food this time.
Spices altered.
Ingredients changed.
Again—
Nothing.
Because Michel Arryn could not be poisoned.
Not by venom.
Not by subtlety.
Not by anything this world could offer.
But others could.
And they did.
Men who served him.
Men who stood too close.
Men who took a sip meant for him.
They died.
And each death carved something deeper into Michel's silence.
The Pattern
It did not stop.
One attempt became two.
Two became five.
Then ten.
Ambush.
Poison.
Knife in the dark.
Whispers in corridors.
Gold changing hands.
And always—
Failure.
Michel stood at the center of it all.
Untouched.
Unbroken.
But not unaware.
Because he saw the pattern.
Too precise.
Too consistent.
Too… deliberate.
One evening, in the quiet of the Eyrie, Michel stood alone by the Moon Door.
The sky stretched endless before him.
Cold.
Empty.
"Petyr Baelish," he said softly.
The name fell like a stone into darkness.
Littlefinger.
The man who smiled while moving pieces.
The man who built power not with armies—
But with secrets.
Michel's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You're impatient."
It made sense.
If Jon Arryn lived—
The Vale remained stable.
Controlled.
Balanced.
If Jon Arryn died—
Chaos would follow.
And in chaos—
Men like Petyr Baelish thrived.
"The Vale becomes a prize," Michel murmured.
A rich one.
Grain.
Gold.
Fleet.
Army.
The third most powerful region in Westeros.
And someone wanted it—
h you lot?"
Cersei's eyes burned.
"This is not a game."
Robert laughed.
"It never is with you."
He waved a hand dismissively.
"I'm not binding my daughter to anyone because Tywin writes a letter."
A pause.
"I'll decide when I feel like it."
That was the end of it.