Chapter 8 – The Return to the Eyrie
The Eyrie, Late 4th Moon, 285 AC
The wind was gentle that morning, rare for the heights. Snow still clung to the towers, but in the distant valleys, green had started to bloom.
Alaric stood at the narrow window of his tower chamber, watching the skies. His hands were behind his back, his posture calm, but his mind alert.
A raven had arrived before first light—Jon Arryn was returning. And with him, Lysa Tully, now Lady Arryn, heavy with child.
Alaric didn't smile. He didn't frown either. He simply absorbed the news. Jon was many things: just, dutiful, patient. And Alaric respected that. But respect was not warmth. Still, he would play the role the Vale expected of him—the quiet, dutiful son waiting for his lord father's return.
He heard the boots on stone before the voice.
"They've reached the Gates of the Moon," Damon said, stepping beside him. "They'll start the climb tomorrow."
Alaric kept his gaze on the horizon. "And the mood?"
"Edgy. Servants are cleaning everything twice. Gossip flutters like birds."
Alaric glanced at him. "About her?"
Damon nodded. "They only saw her once—at the wedding. She barely spoke then. Some think she hated this place. Others wonder if she still does."
Alaric turned away from the window. "Whatever she feels, she's coming to stay. They'll get used to her."
"And will she get used to you?" Damon asked.
Alaric gave no answer.
The next day, the clatter of hooves echoed through the High Hall.The procession was modest but precise. Jon rode tall, if a bit tired, grey streaks more prominent in his beard. At his side rode Lysa, wrapped in thick furs, face pale, lips pressed tight. Her hand rested protectively on her swollen belly.
The Eyrie had been polished to perfection. Fires danced in every hearth, and the falcon banners stirred above the marble floor. Maester Colemon stood waiting with two apprentices near the steps.
"Welcome home, my lord," the maester said.
Jon nodded once. "It's good to be back." He looked up, eyes sweeping the ceiling, the banners, the sky beyond the high windows. "I missed this place more than I thought."
Then he saw Alaric, waiting calmly among the pillars.
Jon stepped toward him and smiled faintly. "You've grown."
Alaric bowed his head politely. "I have to grow—
for the Eyrie."
Jon placed a hand on his shoulder—firm but brief. "And I hear it's been in good hands."
"I did my part."
Lysa reached the top steps just then. Alaric turned to her, tone respectful but distant. "Lady Lysa. Welcome home. I trust the climb was gentle."
She didn't stop. Her gaze flicked to him, then away. She gave the smallest nod and moved on, silent.
Jon's jaw twitched, just slightly.
That night, the solar was warm and quiet. A fire crackled while wind tugged gently at the shutters.
Jon leaned back in the carved chair, a cup in hand. Maester Colemon sat across from him.
"He's changed," Jon said at last.
"In what way, my lord?"
"He used to be more open. Now he holds his thoughts."
Colemon nodded. "He listens. Measures his words. Not in a boyish way—like a man who's already learned caution. The staff trust him. They follow him without fuss."
Jon sipped his wine. "Nestor Royce said Alaric handled the court sessions well."
"He did. Thoughtful. Fair. He avoided the traps most young lords would walk into."
Jon studied the flames. "And the two boys with him? Damon and Lyonel?"
"Shadow and sword," Colemon said softly. "Damon is always close, quiet, watchful. Lyonel blends into the walls. One knows every guard's name; the other could disarm a knight in three moves."
Jon frowned. "What of their loyalty?"
"Unshakable. Damon would stand between him and a mountain without being asked. Lyonel knows what people say before they say it. They believe in him."
"And their story?"
"Lowborn, orphaned, mountain blood. Found by Alaric a moon ago, he said. That's all we've got. They don't lie, but they say little."
Jon drummed his fingers on the armrest. "Strange for boys that young to be so loyal. Or skilled."
"Strange," Colemon agreed. "But not dangerous. Not yet."
Later, under starlight, Alaric sat in the rookery tower, reading beside a flickering candle. The birds rustled now and then, but otherwise, it was silent.
Jon entered quietly.
"I thought you might be here," he said.
Alaric didn't stand. "It's peaceful. No knocking. No chatter."
Jon sat across from him, shoulders stiff.
"This place," Jon said, gazing around, "It changes people, Some grow stronger, Others lose themselves."
Alaric looked at him, calm. "And which did you expect of me?"
Jon gave a weary smile. "The Vale raises falcons. Not doves."
A long pause.
"Thank you," Jon said. "For keeping things steady."
Alaric nodded. "It's my duty. The Eyrie stands for more than one man. I couldn't let it falter."
Jon studied him carefully. "You carry yourself like someone older."
Alaric gave a small nod. "I've seen how quickly weakness is judged. I carry what must be carried."
Jon rose, slower this time, but not with weariness—with thought.
"You're still young, Alaric. That's not something to be ashamed of."
"I know," Alaric said, and for the first time, there was the faintest trace of warmth. "But the Vale doesn't wait for boys to grow."
They exchanged a glance—brief, honest, and quiet. Then Jon gave a faint nod and left the room.
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