Chapter 5 – The Awakening of Alaric Arryn Part (2)
In a secluded chamber behind the rookery—unused, cold, and damp—he stood barefoot on the stone floor and reached inward.
And he willed it.
There was no sound. No flash.
Just presence.
A tall shape emerged from the shadows—no blurring, no grotesque transformation—simply there, like it had always been waiting.
He stood with shoulders square, armored in leather and steel like a seasoned soldier, though no soldier in the Vale had ever seen him before.
Dark skin, black hair tied back, unreadable eyes.
Alaric met his gaze—and felt it.
Loyalty.
More than that. Bond.
"You are…" the boy began.
"I am Damon," the man said, kneeling on one knee. His voice was deep, calm, confident.
"I exist to protect you."
"You know who I am?"
Damon nodded. "I know what you are. And I know what I must do."
The child stared into the eyes of the man he had just created—this was no simple puppet, no magic golem. Damon was alive, with thoughts, emotions, and skill. Alaric could sense the knowledge burning inside him—combat forms, battlefields, assassination tactics, defense plans, and endless drills.
The second creation came more swiftly.
Where Damon was a blade, Lyonel was a whisper. He emerged like a gust of wind slipping through the cracks—slim, youthful, and smiling.
"Hello, my lord," he said with a grin that danced between innocent and shrewd.
Alaric studied him: dark skin, curly hair, clever eyes, and a boyish charm. He looked fifteen, though he carried himself like a seasoned aide. Dressed simply but neatly, he bowed with elegant ease.
"I'll handle the books, the messages, and the people," Lyonel said. "Let Damon handle your enemies. I'll handle everything else."
Alaric laughed quietly. "You're both... perfect."
"No," Lyonel corrected gently. "We're yours."
Two days later, the castle awoke to the news.
Two boys—young travelers—had been found in the high passes, half-frozen, half-starved, curled beneath a rocky outcropping after a storm. Alaric, brave little lordling that he was, had insisted they be brought in.
Maester Colemon raised an eyebrow at the tale.
The Vale was treacherous. Children did not wander it easily.
But the boys told their story well. Their village had been raided. They had tried to reach the Eyrie to beg for protection. They didn't remember much—only that they followed a trail, lost their way, and found shelter. Alaric vouched for them. And in the wake of his miraculous recovery, the servants dared not question his wishes.
Damon, the quiet, stoic older one—hired as a guard's squire.
Lyonel, the clever, cheerful boy—granted a place as a page in training.
And none suspected the truth.
That evening, Alaric sat in the tower room he had claimed as their private chamber—technically a dusty storage room, now cleared out and reinforced. Its narrow window let in starlight, and a small brazier warmed the cold air.
Damon stood like a sentinel near the door, arms crossed, silent and vigilant. Lyonel was seated on the floor beside Alaric, rolling a carved stone between his fingers.
Alaric looked at his creations—not servants, not brothers, but extensions of his will.
"How are the guards treating you?" Alaric asked.
"Like a stray dog with a dagger," Damon replied flatly.
"I've already caught one cook gossiping about us," Lyonel added with a grin. "I played dumb and wide-eyed, of course. She thinks I was born in a potato sack."
Alaric gave a soft chuckle. "Good. Keep it that way."
He handed Lyonel a folded parchment.
"A list?" Lyonel asked.
"Of names. Servants. Guards. Who speaks to whom. I want a chart by next moon's turn."
Lyonel whistled. "You're not wasting time."
"No time to waste," Alaric said seriously. "We need maps. Secret paths. Hidden rooms. If the Eyrie is my nest, I want every corner charted."
Damon nodded. "I'll begin with the upper halls. The guards rotate thrice daily. Two patrols are slack."
"And if someone gets too curious?" Lyonel asked.
Alaric's voice lowered. "Then let them think I'm just a kind-hearted boy who saved two mountain orphans."
He looked at both of them, pale eyes sharp.
"But the moment they stop believing that… we act."
The room fell quiet. Then Damon knelt on one knee. "By your will, my lord."
Lyonel followed, grinning. "Little Lord of the Sky. We're with you."
"I was someone else," he confessed aloud. "In another world. I built companies. Won elections. Made deals with devils and fools."
He looked at his child hands and clenched them.
"But that life… it's gone."
Damon nodded. "This world is raw. Broken. Dangerous."
Lyonel smirked. "And ripe with chances."
Alaric's lips curled into a small smile. "Then let's begin."
Damon tilted his head. "What is your first command, my lord?"
"Survival first," Alaric said. "Then secrecy. Then power. We will build slowly. Quietly. One brick at a time. The Vale must be mine—not by force, but by design. And no one must ever know."
Outside, a falcon cried as it soared across the pale moon. Snow drifted silently against stone. The winds still howled—but now, they carried whispers of a future none could foresee.
In the highest castle in the realm, a boy with the mind of a man and the soul of a king began to rise.
And beneath him, two shadows knelt, ready to change the fate of Westeros.