Chapter 2 – A Falcon Among Ashes
The Eyrie – 279 AC
Snow fell in whispers over the Vale. It drifted from the white sky like ash, quiet and ceaseless, covering the steep paths that led to the skybound halls of House Arryn. The wind howled through the high passes, and the mountain goats had long since descended to warmer slopes. Yet atop the world, the Eyrie stood untouched, its pale towers reaching into cloud and shadow, crowned by mourning.
Within its cold stone heart, House Arryn grieved.
The bells had rung for Lady Rowena Arryn three days past, their tones echoing down the mountains, carried by wind to the castles and holdfasts below. Lords of the Vale had come.
Noble banners now hung beside Arryn's own falcon—the silver-and-black of House Corbray, the sun-and-moon of the Templetons, the red castle of the Redforts, the green-and-gold of House Waynwood, and the ancient bronze armor of House Royce.
The Eyrie had not seen such gathering since the last war council of the Vale six years earlier.
But this was no war council. This was a vigil. A judgment. A reckoning.
For House Arryn had lost its lady—and gained an infant heir in the same breath.
The great Sky Sept, rarely used, had been opened and adorned. Pale blue tapestries rippled behind the altar. A stone effigy of the Mother cradled her sculpted babe, while real nobles stood stiff and cloaked in black. Candles flickered in every alcove, giving the impression of stars caught in stone.
At the center lay Rowena, wrapped in white and bound in linen. Her face had been gently washed, her features composed into a peace she had not known in her final hours. She wore the silver falcon brooch of House Arryn pinned to her chest.
At her feet stood her husband, Lord Jon Arryn, in a formal blue robe, flanked by his household guard.
Beside him sat a carved cradle, watched closely by a wet nurse and two handmaidens. Within it lay Alaric Arryn, wrapped tightly in layers of wool and velvet, eyes wide open.
He was not like other infants. He did not cry. He did not squirm.
He watched.
And above him, the Vale's most powerful men and women did the same.
The septon's voice was deep and rhythmic, his prayers echoing against the high walls.
"...May the Mother receive her daughter with mercy, and the Stranger guide her gently. May her soul fly with the falcons of her house, and may her name live in stone and sky..."
Maester Colemon, standing near the septon with his hands folded in front of his robes, listened with practiced patience. He had attended more funerals than he could count. But rarely had he seen a gathering this tense—so much grief tied to so many questions.
Rowena had been the quiet strength of the Arryn household. Her death left a void that duty alone could not fill.
And in her place, a child. Barely two weeks old.
Would the lords of the Vale accept such an heir?
In the front row, Lord Nestor Royce, Yohn Royce, and Ser Lyn Corbray stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes solemn but calculating. Behind them, Lady Anya Waynwood, cloaked in deep green, murmured to her steward. Near the rear stood younger knights, minor lords, and other guests.
But most eyes turned occasionally—not toward Jon—but toward two boys standing in silence near a side pillar.
Robert Baratheon was nearly sixteen, tall already and broad-shouldered, dressed in fine black with silver stags at his collar. His dark hair curled above a noble brow, and though he bore a somber look today, the restless energy beneath his stillness was visible to anyone who knew him. His hands were clenched behind his back to keep from fidgeting.
Beside him stood Eddard Stark, only a few months younger. Pale and lean, his gray eyes watched the ceremony with quiet intensity. He said nothing. He rarely did unless words mattered.
These were Lord Jon Arryn's wards, sent from Storm's End and Winterfell two years ago. They were fosterlings in name, But Jon had treated them like sons. They had trained together, learned together, even sat in on his councils in recent moons.
Now, they stood like shadows behind the cradle of House Arryn's future.
When the septon finished his rites, a silence fell upon the chamber. Lord Jon stepped forward, every movement precise, every word weighed with care.
"My lady wife is gone," he said. "She was the keeper of this hall's peace, the strength behind my name. I do not speak of her with honeyed words. She would not have wanted it. I speak simply—she served this house and this realm without vanity, and she gave it something I could not find through war or duty: a future."
He turned and placed a hand on the cradle.
"This is Alaric Arryn, son of Jon and Rowena, heir to the Vale of Arryn. He is young, yes—but so was Artys Arryn when he first flew from the Giant's Lance. So was Ronnel when he ruled from the Eyrie. The blood of the Falcon runs strong. I ask no vows today—only faith."
He looked across the gathered faces. "Faith that House Arryn shall not fall."
He said no more.
The nobles murmured among themselves as they filed out. There was no feast, no music. Mourning demanded restraint. But restraint did not mean silence.
In the solar, wine was passed quietly. Some spoke of the snow. Others of the child. A few of the rebellion already brewing to the south, whispered among the maesters and messengers.
Robert Baratheon was the first to break away.
He made his way down a narrow corridor toward the nursery, footsteps echoing off the marble. Ned followed, saying nothing until they reached the half-open door.
Inside, the room was dim. A brazier crackled softly, and Maester Colemon stood beside the wet nurse, adjusting a woolen cover on the cradle. He looked up when the boys entered.
"My lords."
"Just looking," Robert said, waving him off.
He stepped up beside the cradle and peered down.
Alaric lay beneath the swaddling cloth, eyes open and alert.
Robert raised a brow. "He doesn't sleep much, does he?"
Colemon shook his head. "Rarely. It's strange, but he's healthy. Listens more than cries."
Robert leaned down. "You look like you understand me, little lord."
The baby stared back. Unblinking.
"Gods," Robert whispered. "He's sizing me up."
Ned moved beside him, gaze thoughtful. "He doesn't flinch. Most babes look away from faces. He doesn't."
Robert straightened. "He's not soft. That's good. He'll need to be harder than all of us before long."
Ned studied the infant. "He has lord Arryn's eyes."
Robert nodded. "And his silence."
Colemon chuckled lightly.
Robert clapped his hand on Ned's shoulder.
The boys stood a moment longer, then left, leaving the room once more to soft firelight and flickering shadows.
Elsewhere, in the council room, lords gathered again—not for grief, but for subtle measure.
Lord Jon sat at the head of the long oaken table.
To his left sat Maester Colemon, to his right, Nestor Royce.
"I do not require oaths," Jon repeated to the gathered men, "but I will hear your counsel."
Yohn Royce, his voice gravelled and grounded, said, "The Vale stands behind you, my lord. But the child must be seen in your court—raised among lords. Hidden heirs do not inspire trust."
"He will be visible," Jon said. "I will not cloister him like a secret. But neither will I parade him for spectacle. He is not a relic. He is my son."
Lord Corbray, ever sharp-eyed, added, "Then let the boy be fostered—when of age. With one of us."
Jon said nothing for a moment. His fingers curled slightly atop the table.
"Perhaps," he finally said. "When he is older."
He did not trust them yet. Not with his blood.
Not with Rowena's last gift.
That night, Jon stood alone in the Eyrie's highest chamber.
Outside, snow whispered past the window. A fire roared in the hearth. Alaric lay in his arms, eyes still wide. Awake. As always.
"You see too much, little one," Jon murmured. "I do not know what the gods have woven into your soul, but I see it. I see something in you that goes deeper than blood."
The child's tiny hand reached toward his face. Jon let him touch the worn line of his jaw.
"You will not be weak. You cannot afford it."
He looked out across the mountains.
"The world is changing. Storm is coming. But I will give you time. Time to grow. Time to fly."
Behind him, the falcon banners fluttered in the firelight.
And the boy said nothing.
But in his stillness, there was knowing.