The Rise of Falcon (GOT & ASOIAF)

Chapter 6 – The Shaping of the Falcon 

The Eyrie, 285 AC

The wind curled around the high towers of the Eyrie like a serpent of frost. It howled through stone arches and swept along icy parapets, hissing past the windows of the private training yard where a young boy stood barefoot on smooth flagstones. Snow didn't fall in thick layers here, but the cold was constant. The Eyrie never truly thawed.

Alaric Arryn gritted his teeth and moved again.

His wooden practice sword cut the air, clumsy in his small hands. Across from him stood Damon, tall and dark-skinned, eyes sharp, movements measured.

 "Balance," Damon said simply. "Again."

Alaric tried. Left foot forward, twist from the hips, strike low. He slipped. Damon caught his arm before he hit the stone.

"You think like a man," Damon said quietly. "But your body is still a boy's. Train it to match."

Alaric nodded, breathing hard. His tunic clung to him, damp with sweat despite the chill. He did not ask for rest. He only asked, "Again?"

Damon offered the sword. "Again."

They trained until dawn broke over the mountain spires. When the first light touched the narrow windows of the high keep, Alaric slumped onto a bench beside the brazier. Damon wrapped a fur cloak over his shoulders without a word.

"You'll bruise," Damon murmured, examining a red welt on the boy's wrist.

"Bruises heal. Weakness doesn't."

Damon raised a brow. He didn't smile often, but this time there was a flicker of respect.

Later that morning, after washing and dressing, Alaric met Lyonel in the solar.The dark-skinned steward looked not a day older than fifteen, but his eyes were alert, his hands always neat. He laid out three cloaks and five sigils."House Grafton. House Redfort. House Corbray. What do they have in common?"

"They serve House Arryn," Alaric answered.

"True. But speak like a Grafton, and you'll sound like a merchant prince from Gulltown. Speak like a Redfort, and you'll sound like a knight from the high passes. Learn the difference."

They spent the next hour drilling dialects. Lyonel spoke in three voices, and Alaric mimicked each.

Then came posture. "A noble heir stands proud," Lyonel said, lifting his chin. "A bastard bows too often. A servant smiles too easily. Match your tone to the lie."

Alaric practiced smiles in the mirror. Each was a mask.

They rehearsed scenes: Alaric as a frightened page, then as a bold knight's son, then as a simple scribe. Lyonel corrected every blink, every hand twitch.

"If you speak too cleanly in a crowded inn, someone will mark you."

"And if I speak like a peasant?"

"Then no lord will take you seriously. Blend, don't vanish."

That afternoon, Ser Vardis Egen observed Alaric training with Damon again.

The grey-bearded knight leaned on the edge of the practice ring, arms folded. He said nothing for the first thirty minutes.

Then, as Alaric ducked under a feint and landed a weak strike against Damon's hip, Ser Vardis grunted.

"He learns faster than most pages," he said to Damon.

Damon gave no reply.

Alaric stood still, panting, looking to the knight.

"You've your lord father's eyes," Ser Vardis said. 

"But you carry yourself like a boy who's been at war."

Alaric tilted his head. "The world is a battlefield, ser. Even if the swords are only words."

Ser Vardis stared for a long moment. Then he laughed. Not kindly, not cruelly—just surprised.

"Seven help the Vale when this one grows."

That evening, Nestor Royce visited the Eyrie. The High Steward of the Vale had come to inspect grain ledgers, but stayed long enough to take supper with the boy.

Alaric sat quietly at the long table beside Lyonel. Damon stood behind them both.

Royce watched him with a calculating gaze. "You look stronger than last I saw you."

"I am," Alaric said simply.

"You were ill."

"I recovered."

Royce raised a brow. "You speak like a man twice your height."

Alaric smiled faintly. "Should I speak like a babe to please you, my lord?"

Lyonel coughed to cover his laugh.

Royce set down his cup. "You have teeth, young falcon. But remember this:—eagles fly high because they don't bite too soon."

"Noted," Alaric replied.

When the steward left, he glanced back at Damon and Lyonel with narrowed eyes.

"That boy will not be like his father," he muttered.

The next morning, Maester Colemon came to see Alaric with a tray of books and a fresh inkwell.

The boy was seated near a high window, studying an old map of the Vale.

"Lord Alaric," Colemon said gently, "you ought to rest more. Children need sleep."

"I'll sleep when the Vale is safe."

Colemon smiled thinly. "And who threatens it?"

Alaric didn't look away from the map. "Time. Weakness. Forgetfulness."They went over history—the Dance of the Dragons, the Blackfyre Rebellions. Alaric recited names and dates with disturbing precision.

Colemon frowned. "Wisdom without caution is wildfire in a summer wind. Your mind is sharp, my lord. But steel that is drawn too quickly shatters."

Alaric nodded politely. "I'll remember."

But he wouldn't dull the edge.

That night, Alaric stood alone on a balcony that jutted over nothing but air and stars. The Vale stretched out below him in silence.Damon was in the shadows behind. Lyonel leaned on the balcony rail beside him, arms crossed, his breath steaming in the cold.

"You learn quick," Lyonel murmured. "But even quick learners need rest."

Alaric shook his head. "There's no time. Every day wasted is a step behind."

Damon stepped forward. "And yet no general wins without patience."

Alaric turned to them both. "I need you to watch what I miss. Teach me what I lack. Help me become what they never expect."

"They're watching me," Alaric whispered.

Damon stepped closer, voice quiet. "Then we must move with care. A shadow cast too early gives shape to the blade."

Alaric nodded slowly. "No missteps. No noise."

"No mercy," Lyonel added, eyes gleaming.

Alaric turned away from the edge. The Eyrie was vast, but not large enough to contain his plans.

One day, all of Westeros would be the same.

He walked back into the dark, already dreaming of new faces he hadn't yet called into being.