The Rise of Falcon (GOT & ASOIAF)

Chapter 7 – Stone, Goat, and Faith

The Eyrie, 4th Moon, 285 AC

On the seventh day of the fourth moon, small court was held in the eastern audience chamber—lesser matters and regional disputes, all beneath the attention of King's Landing. But with Lord Jon Arryn still serving as Hand of the King, justice in the Vale fell—for now—to Lord Nestor Royce.

Alaric Arryn, just over six years of age, fastened his cloak at the shoulder as dawn broke over the eastern peaks.

Damon, his bodyguard, stood beside him—not as a servant, nor as a handler, but as a commander recognizing his liege. 

At last, Damon spoke in a quiet voice meant for no ears but Alaric's.

"They'll weigh every word. And every silence."

Alaric met his eyes without flinching. "Then I'll give them silence enough to grow uneasy."

Damon allowed the smallest nod. "As you will it, my lord."

Lyonel, lounging by the hearth with arms folded, added with a smirk, "And if the court presses too hard, remember: polite confusion is a weapon too."

Alaric gave him a look. "Only fools pretend to be confused. I'd rather let them see exactly what I want—and wonder if that's all there is."

The boy turned and made for the hall. Damon followed like a shadow. Lyonel melted into the background.

The chamber was modest, a far cry from the Moonstone Throne, but warmed by braziers and sunlight slanting through narrow windows. Stone banners carved with falcons lined the walls.

At the center sat Lord Nestor Royce, broad-shouldered and grave beneath his bronze-inlaid cloak. Ser Vardis Egen, ever watchful, stood at his right. Maester Colemon flanked his left, scrolls in hand and expression tight with discipline.

A few knights and stewards lined the benches. Three petitioners waited near the rear of the chamber—men and women of the Vale, faces wind-worn and wary.

Alaric took a seat below the dais, as befit a child of his rank and age. No throne, no attention—yet none in the hall could help but glance at him.

Maester Colemon's voice rang out as he unrolled the first scroll.

"Three petitions this morning, my lords. Each brought from within the inner valleys."

Lord Nestor gestured. "Let them be heard."

The first to step forward was a lean man with ash-colored hands—Kern, a quarryman with streaks of grey in his beard. He bowed sharply.

"My lords. I quarry the eastern cliffs below the Eyrie, by writ of Lord Jon himself. But this spring, Benric—kinsman to Ser Gendin of House Harrow—has halted my men, claiming the cliff cuts through his family's leased slope. He has no writ. Only boldness."

Benric, heavier and red-faced, scowled. "Those cliffs fed my grandfather's sheep. We gave up pasture for peace, but not for stone."

Royce leaned back, fingers tapping his armrest.

Ser Vardis muttered, "The slope's edge has always been unclear. Still, Kern holds Jon's seal."

Maester Colemon added, "Without new survey lines, any ruling would be temporary."

Royce looked down toward the boy.

"Lord Alaric, do you have an opinion?"

Alaric stood slowly. His voice was soft but clear.

"If the cliff serves both claims, split its worth—not the rock. Let Kern quarry under his writ, but grant Benric's household ten percent of the cut stone for the spring moon. When Lord Jon returns, he may judge the bounds anew."

Silence followed. Even Colemon paused in his scribbling.

Royce gave a grunt. "A fair arrangement, and one no man can say dishonors the seal. So ruled."

Next came Lem, a sunburnt farmer with thick calloused hands. He bowed low, though his tone held fire."My lords, clanfolk crossed into my pasture last moon. Took three goats. I thought it bold—but then I hear from others that Perra, the widow, sold 'em! Traded good goats for furs and salted meat. With the mountain men!"

Gasps and mutters rippled through the chamber. 

Perra, a weather-worn woman in faded shawls, stepped forward with calm defiance.

"I traded no stolen beasts. I bought the goats fair from Lem's own brother, Harlan. He gave them up for half a sack of barley and a skin of sweetwater."

Lem flushed. "My brother had no right!"

Perra's voice was firm. "Then take it up with him. I did no stealing. And the hill men? They were peaceful. Brought dried pears for my son."

Ser Vardis frowned. "Trade with the clans is not illegal. But it risks trust."

Colemon added, "And tracking stolen livestock without brands is like chasing smoke."

Royce looked toward Alaric once more.

The boy rose, composed.

"If the goats were stolen, let the brother answer. But if none can prove the theft, let both parties present what records they hold—ledgers, letters, marks—before Maester Colemon within the week. If none can be found, then Perra must pay a goat's worth to the sept. And no further claim be made."

Colemon nodded, clearly approving.

Royce leaned back. "You'd make a sharp reeve, young lord."

The final figure to step forward was Septon Orlan, wrapped in grey and white, his eyes sharp and shoulders stiff.

"My lords. At Evenfall's feast for the Mother, the merchant's daughter, Ela, danced in public. No veil. No modesty. Laughed and sang like a mummer. And the village cheered. Her father says it was celebration. I say it was blasphemy."

Royce's expression darkened slightly. The Vale held the Faith close, even in snow and silence.

Before anyone spoke, Alaric stepped forward—not bold, but composed.

"Septon Orlan speaks for the Seven. But perhaps the girl's joy was not mockery. The Seven see our hearts more than our steps. If she danced with joy in her soul, perhaps that too was a kind of prayer."

The chamber hushed.

Even Orlan looked taken aback. Then, slowly, he bowed.

"Perhaps… I judged too quickly."

Royce declared: "No punishment will be dealt. But let the Eyrie donate silvercloth to the sept at Evenfall, in the Mother's honor. And the girl shall be reminded—joy is holy, but dignity has place beside it."

As the chamber emptied, Royce remained seated, eyes fixed on the boy.

Ser Vardis murmured, "He speaks with care."

Maester Colemon added quietly, "And precision."

Royce's gaze lingered on the falcon pin on Alaric's shoulder. "It's the care that unsettles me."

Back in the solar, the wind howled outside, but the fire crackled warm. Alaric sat near the window, watching clouds drift between the peaks. His small hands rested atop a folded ledger.

Damon stood beside the hearth.

"You gave them nothing to strike at," he said.

Alaric nodded once. "I want them to think I'm clever. But still… a boy."

Lyonel grinned. "They'll keep underestimating you. That's the best armor we have."

Alaric didn't smile."Let them stare into the falcon's eyes," he said softly. "One day, they'll realize too late how high I was flying."

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