Throne Room of the Eyrie
The cool air of the high mountain winds slipped through the narrow, arched windows of the throne room, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and snow. The walls of white stone seemed to drink in the light, and silence reigned with such weight that even the softest footfall echoed.
At the far end of the chamber, upon a throne carved from the ancient, petrified trunk of a mountain ash tree, sat Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East. The throne itself was an austere thing—unadorned by gold or gemstones, the polished wood bearing the grain of time itself, a symbol of the Vale's enduring strength. Jon leaned forward slightly, his chin resting on a gloved fist, listening intently to the report being read aloud by one of his knights.
But his mind, sharp as it remained in his later years, was wandering.
Two boys came to mind—the two wards he fostered under his roof, boys who would one day shape the future of the realm.
The first: Robert Baratheon, heir to Storm's End. A storm given form, bursting with energy, reckless charm, and a laugh that could shake the stones. He was the kind of lad who could make a room come alive simply by stepping into it, always surrounded by friends, squires, and admirers. His appetite for life was insatiable—whether it be for drink, food, or women. Jon could still remember the frustration he felt upon learning Robert had fathered a bastard girl some moons ago, a child he named Mya Stone. Jon had expected denial, evasion—typical noble excuses. But Robert surprised him. The boy hadn't just acknowledged the child—he'd visited her often, bringing gifts and affection. There was steel under the thunder, it seemed.
The second: Eddard Stark, second son of Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell. The very wind of the North seemed to cling to the boy. He was quiet, contemplative, with the eyes of one who listened more than he spoke. He was a boy of solemn honor—too solemn, perhaps. Jon would never speak it aloud, but there were times he feared he'd instilled too much of the Vale's rigid values into the Stark lad. Eddard had clung to the knightly codes and duties of a nobleman with a kind of reverent intensity—yet he remained blind, or perhaps willfully ignorant, to the subtleties of southern courts and their serpentine games. In truth, both boys shared a distaste for politics, though they expressed it in very different ways.
Despite their contrasts, they were inseparable. One loud, brash, and full of life; the other silent, steadfast, and contemplative. They were fire and frost, storm and stone—but where one went, the other followed. Except, of course, when Robert visited the brothels of the lower Vale towns, indulging in pleasures that Eddard would never even speak of, let alone partake in.
Jon sighed through his nose, lifting his eyes back to the knight who finished his report. The words about raiders in the foothills and dead clansmen were troubling—but his thoughts lingered still on the boys who would someday become men. Robert might rule a Storm, and Eddard might inherit a frozen fortress, but both had roads of war, love, and loss ahead of them.
And Jon Arryn, for all his wisdom, wondered which of them would bend—and which would break.
The quiet gravity of the Eyrie's throne room was broken as the doors groaned open with a loud creak, and a young knight burst inside, his breath shallow, eyes wide with urgency. Jon Arryn, seated atop the weathered wooden throne carved from the petrified trunk of an ancient mountain tree, didn't even glance up at first.
He barely remembered the knight's name—and truth be told, he didn't care to. So many young men wore a knight's mantle these days without ever truly earning it. Most had never shed blood for their oaths or known the weight of honor in silence. Still, Jon would never say such things aloud. Dignity demanded restraint, especially from a lord of his station.
"My lord," the knight said, bowing hastily. "The mountain clans… they attacked a village a day's ride from here."
Jon's brows lifted slightly. That, at least, was not surprising.
He let out a tired sigh, leaning more fully into the carved arm of his throne. "Which village did they destroy this time?" he asked, his voice edged with weary resignation. The mountain clans had grown bolder of late, and his heart was worn thin by the burden of defending scattered, impoverished hamlets nestled in the Vale's treacherous valleys.
But what came next made him sit straighter.
"That's the thing, my lord…" The knight hesitated, as if unsure of his own words. "A single boy… a lad of one-and-seven name days… killed the entire raiding party. All twenty of them. Without… without so much as a scratch."
Silence fell over the chamber like a dropped veil.
Jon's gaze narrowed, and from the corner of his eye, he noticed movement—both Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, seated at the lower steps of the throne dais, had turned sharply to look at the knight. Even Robert's ever-present grin was gone, replaced by intrigue. Eddard simply blinked, eyes sharp and quiet as winter.
Jon slowly rose to his feet, the long, feathered cloak of his station trailing behind him as he descended the dais.
"Correct me if I misheard you, ser," Jon said, his voice calm but cool as the mountain wind. "Did you say a mere boy of one-and-seven namedays slew twenty mountain clansmen—alone—and walked away without injury?"
"Yes, my lord," the knight said quickly, swallowing hard.
Jon descended another step, his blue eyes pinning the knight where he stood like a blade to the throat.
"Don't take me for a fool," he said. "Not even Ser Barristan the Bold, in his prime, could have managed such a feat at that age. Nor could Ser Arthur Dayne, though he might've taken ten… and not without bleeding for it." His tone hardened. "And yet you expect me to believe that some backwater boy, with no squire's training, no noble tutelage, no house name of repute, has slaughtered twenty of the Vale's most savage raiders without so much as a bruise?"
The knight flinched slightly, but to his credit, did not step back. "That is what the villagers said, my lord. We questioned several… and their stories matched. Every one of them."
Jon studied the boy—no, the man—in the armor for a moment longer before finally turning away, clasping his hands behind his back.
"What is the name of this village?" he asked.
"Duskmere, my lord. Near the eastern passes."
Jon paused, brow furrowing. Duskmere… one of the poorest and most isolated villages in the eastern Vale. It barely had a garrison, let alone anyone trained to fight clansmen, and yet—
He looked over at Robert and Eddard again. "It seems we may have an… anomaly in our midst."
Robert's grin slowly returned. "I like him already."
Eddard remained silent, but his eyes stayed fixed on Jon, waiting—always waiting, and watching.
Jon Arryn exhaled softly. A boy of one-and-seven who killed twenty men without a scratch… if it was true, then the Vale might have birthed something dangerous—or perhaps something extraordinary.
"Send word to Duskmere," Jon commanded. "I want this boy brought to the Eyrie. Not in chains, but with escort and courtesy. If what you say is true… we may need to know what else he is capable of."
The knight bowed and turned to carry out the order, the heavy doors shutting behind him with a reverberating thud.
And in the high, cold halls of the Eyrie, Jon Arryn found himself thinking not of knights or lords—but of something older. Something stranger. A boy from nowhere, walking out of blood without a wound… and the scent of destiny on the mountain winds.
Three days later…
The clang of dull metal striking polished wood rang through the village square, each strike echoing against the crooked rooftops and weather-worn stones of Duskmere.
Jinx moved like a shadow in full sunlight—unhurried, fluid, unrelenting.
He held nothing more than a wooden katana, sanded smooth and stained dark with soot and oil, yet in his hands, it might as well have been Valyrian steel. Around him, four Vale soldiers circled in a staggered formation, each holding tourney swords—half-dull, certainly, but still iron, still dangerous.
Sweat poured down the men's faces. Their armor had long since been cast aside in frustration and suffocation, leaving them in loose linen shirts that now clung to their skin. Two had already thrown their shirts off completely, chests rising and falling with exhaustion.
Jinx, in contrast, hadn't broken a sweat.
The captain stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching grimly. His eyes squinted beneath his helm. These weren't his best men—but they weren't green boys either. They had seen skirmishes, at least. Fought off wild men, bandits, and broken knights. And yet here they were—utterly humiliated by a boy of one-and-seven name days wielding a toy sword.
But what gnawed at the captain more than the loss was how the boy moved. His footwork—elegant, measured. His form—refined, precise. Every block, every counter, every deflection had purpose. The sword wasn't just a weapon in Jinx's hands—it was an extension of his body.
The duel began anew.
One soldier lunged—classic overhead strike. Jinx turned his body sideways with a dancer's grace, parrying upward with a tight spiral motion that sent the soldier stumbling off-balance. He followed up with a sweeping low slash that struck the man's shin—enough to make him fall, groaning.
That was Makashi—the art of precision and finesse, countering brute force with poise.
The second came from behind, but Jinx sensed him before he struck. He leapt—a spinning aerial twist that saw him land behind the man instead. The soldier blinked in confusion before a light tap to the back of his head sent him tumbling forward. The villagers gasped. The captain narrowed his eyes.
That acrobatic fluidity? Ataru. Form IV. Turning gravity itself into an ally.
"Again," Jinx said quietly, and two more rushed him together.
This time, his stance shifted.
He absorbed their strikes head-on, allowing his body to root in place like an oak, redirecting the force of their blows through tight blocks and harsh ripostes. He parried one strike into the other attacker's path, letting them tangle themselves. His movements were broader now, deliberate, each strike resounding like thunder. One backhand strike to the ribs, another blunt jab to the gut, and both men were on the ground.
That was unmistakably Djem So—Form V. Strength through dominance, harnessing aggression as a shield.
The fourth soldier—perhaps the smartest—hesitated. He lowered his sword a touch. "What… what are you?"
Jinx didn't answer. He advanced, not with speed, but with presence.
His movements now were wild, unpredictable—his steps erratic, yet calculated. He twisted his body into stances that seemed unorthodox, even dangerous, channeling a raw and unyielding momentum. The wooden katana struck with almost theatrical force, cracking the air with each swing.
This was Form VII—Juyo. The Ferocity Form. An expression of emotion, not just technique. A dance of controlled chaos.
The fourth soldier didn't last long.
With a final sweeping strike, Jinx knocked the man's sword flying. It skittered across the ground and came to rest at the captain's feet.
Silence followed.
Jinx exhaled slowly and stepped back, lowering his wooden blade.
The four soldiers groaned on the dirt or clutched their bruises, but not one of them had bled. Not one had been permanently injured.
The captain walked forward and picked up the discarded tourney sword.
He looked at Jinx—not the blade.
"You ever been trained by a knight?" he asked.
Jinx shook his head. "No, ser."
"You ever seen real battle?"
"Only once," Jinx replied calmly, "two days ago."
The captain narrowed his eyes. "And how did that end?"
Jinx's gaze didn't waver. "With twenty dead mountain clansmen and me walking away."
The captain looked down at the bent wooden sword. A hairline crack had formed along its edge.
"I've seen men who've trained with masters of arms for ten years move worse than you. The forms you used—weren't just lucky guesses." His voice dropped to a quiet growl. "You're not normal, boy."
Jinx simply bowed.
"I don't think I am."
From the nearby shadows, the villagers watched in stunned awe. Some whispered blessings, others stared with open mouths. And though the sweat and panting of the soldiers filled the air, all eyes had turned toward the boy with the wooden katana.
The boy who danced through steel like wind through grass.
And somewhere in the back of the crowd, an old man murmured:
"Wolves ain't born in these hills. Not like that. That one's been touched by something… older."
The sun hung high over Duskmere, casting its golden light over the training field behind the blacksmith's shop. Dust kicked up from booted feet, and the ring of steel against wood echoed off the stone walls of the village.
Jinx stood in the center of the clearing, his wooden katana held lightly in one hand. Despite the intensity of the session, his breaths came slow and even. He hadn't even broken a sweat.
Around him, Vale soldiers stood bent over, panting, bruised, and thoroughly humiliated. Their half-dull tourney swords clattered to the ground, their pride bleeding out faster than their egos could handle. Every swing they threw was countered, redirected, or avoided altogether—Jinx's movements were fluid, graceful, and surgical. He was art in motion.
Form II gave him precision; Form IV lent him acrobatic unpredictability; Form V brought raw strength to every counter; and Form VII... that was the ferocity he used when he danced between them, overwhelming one after the other with frightening speed. He didn't need a real blade. The wooden katana, guided by mastery and purpose, was more than enough.
On the edge of the circle stood Ser Alaric Mallor, the commanding officer of the Vale patrol stationed near Duskmere. His pale blue cloak fluttered slightly in the wind, his arms crossed as he watched his men fall one by one to a boy of just one-and-seven name days. His jaw tightened.
"This is embarrassing," he muttered under his breath.
Finally, he stepped forward, drawing a collective sigh of relief and anticipation from the exhausted soldiers.
"I'll take a turn," Alaric said, his tone quiet but full of steel. "Let's see if the songs about you are true."
Jinx turned toward him, eyes calm, expression unreadable. He gave a small nod and brought his wooden katana into a loose stance.
Ser Alaric stepped onto the field, his armor clinking softly with each stride. He drew a blunt practice sword from his belt and settled into a classical Vale stance—solid, defensive, grounded in knightly tradition.
For a moment, they just circled.
Then they moved.
Alaric came in with a heavy swing, aiming for Jinx's side. Jinx turned with it, catching the edge of the strike on his wooden blade, twisting his hips to redirect the momentum, then stepped in close and struck the captain's thigh with a flicking snap.
Alaric grunted and pivoted away, bringing his sword up to parry Jinx's follow-up thrust. But Jinx wasn't there—he had already vanished around Alaric's side, spinning low and delivering a quick, precise tap behind the knee.
Alaric stumbled.
The soldiers watching winced. That hit would've crippled in a real fight.
"You're not bad," Alaric muttered as he straightened up. He brought his sword up in a vertical guard, adjusted his footwork, and came in again—this time faster.
Jinx responded in kind, flowing into Form IV's mobility, backflipping away, then launching off the ground and spinning through the air to land behind Alaric, a sweeping strike aimed at the captain's back.
Alaric barely blocked in time, but the force of the blow dented his shoulder plate. The power behind that wooden blade was inhuman.
Again and again, the fight resumed, but always with the same result—Alaric attacked, and Jinx dismantled his rhythm, outmaneuvered his weight, and landed every strike with humiliating clarity. Within minutes, the captain's armor bore dozens of dents, and his breathing had grown labored.
Frustrated, Alaric stepped back, threw off his helmet with a clatter, then reached up to unbuckle his breastplate. It hit the ground with a thud.
"If I'm going to lose," he muttered, yanking off his sweat-drenched undershirt to reveal a scarred, muscular chest, "I'm not going to do it looking like a tin can."
He picked up the sword again. "No more holding back."
Jinx blinked, surprised—not at the words, but at the shift in Alaric's presence. He was no longer a knight going easy on a boy. He was a warrior now.
Their weapons clashed again, and this time, Jinx felt it.
Alaric moved with purpose, no longer telegraphing every swing. His strikes were sharper, his footwork tighter. He lunged, pivoted, forced Jinx back. A real fighter had emerged.
Jinx narrowed his eyes and allowed himself to shift—just a touch. He transitioned into Form V, planting his feet and striking back with raw strength, meeting Alaric's might with his own.
The two became a blur of motion—wood against steel, sweat and breath and will clashing in the open air. The soldiers held their breath. This was no longer practice. It was war in miniature.
Still, slowly, Jinx began to pull ahead.
He adjusted between the seven forms without thought—blocking high with Form III's efficiency, striking low with Form VII's fury, leaping away with Form IV's agility, then returning like a storm.
Finally, Alaric swung wide with a desperate slash, and Jinx ducked under it, spun, and landed three sharp taps—one on Alaric's ribs, one on his thigh, and one just above his collarbone. Each blow rang with the sound of finality.
Alaric stumbled to one knee, panting, his sword slipping from his grip.
Silence.
Then a few of the soldiers clapped, hesitantly. Others stared with disbelief. The captain raised a hand and barked out, between ragged breaths, "Enough."
Jinx stepped back and bowed politely, his katana at his side.
Alaric slowly rose, rubbing a bruise on his ribs, and gave the boy a tired smile.
"You're no boy," he said. "You're a storm in human shape. Seven hells, Gorran was right."
Jinx gave a small shrug, brushing dust from his shoulder. "That wasn't even my real sword."
That earned a weak chuckle from the soldiers.
Ser Alaric just shook his head, chuckling. "Gods help whoever you decide is your enemy."
And with that, the respect of the Vale soldiers was won—not through birthright, nor gold, but through sheer, undeniable skill.
The thunder of hooves broke the calm after the spar. A knight clad in the silver-and-blue of House Arryn galloped into Duskmere's training yard atop a white destrier, his polished breastplate gleaming beneath the afternoon sun.
He halted before Ser Alaric Mallor, saluting crisply. "Captain! I bear urgent orders from the Eyrie," the knight called. "Lord Arryn commands that the boy who slew the mountain clansmen be brought before him at once. He has made it clear—he is not to be brought in chains."
The captain raised a brow, glancing toward Jinx.
Jinx merely shrugged, rolling his shoulder as if the announcement were more of a mild inconvenience than a royal summons. "Give me a few minutes," he said calmly. "I'll need to pack."
Alaric gave a short nod. "Very well. I'll accompany you."
Together, the captain and the boy turned toward the village's inner lane, walking with a silent urgency toward Jinx's modest home.
Jinx's POV
The door creaked open beneath my hand, and the familiar scent of cooked onions and roasted oats greeted me like an old friend. The midday light spilled into the home, casting long shadows over the wooden floor.
Inside, I found them—my mother and my little sister, Lysa. They stood side by side at the hearth, my mother gently stirring a pot while Lysa fetched herbs from a carved wooden bowl.
I paused in the doorway, silent, watching.
My mother was as stunning as ever—an almost ethereal beauty. Her hair, pitch black and waist-length, shimmered in the light like woven silk. Her eyes, a deep and haunting red, were rare in Westeros. You didn't see many like hers, not in the Vale. Perhaps in the Riverlands, in Dorne, or in the old North where strange blood still ran in ancient veins. But even there, her eyes would have been whispered about.
She had a body men dreamed of and women envied—soft curves, regal posture, a grace that made even silence feel like music. I inherited her softness in my face, the slender build, the quiet presence. She hoped Lysa would too, but...
My sister was different.
Where my mother and I were willow-thin and sharp-featured, Lysa was her father's daughter through and through. Already, despite being just a child, she had the Northern sturdiness in her limbs, the beginnings of muscle under her freckled skin. She carried herself like someone who would one day wear armor without complaint.
Her hair was a light brown, a shade almost gold under the sunlight—our father's color. Her eyes were bright and blue like the mountain skies, wide and curious.
I'd always found it strange. She looked just like him. I didn't. My hair was black like Mother's, but my eyes were… something else entirely.
Purple.
Not lilac like a Targaryen's, but a deeper shade—an amethyst hue that caught torchlight like polished glass. My mother always said I had my grandmother's eyes. A woman from Lys, a courtesan of great renown—or so the stories went. She'd whispered once, half-smiling, that my grandmother had been the most sought-after beauty in all of Lys, her eyes said to enchant even the hardest men. A purple-eyed whore, yes—but one who turned coin into comfort and beauty into legend.
I wondered sometimes what I inherited from her, besides these strange eyes and a way of moving that made armored knights stumble.
But I didn't say any of that.
Instead, I stepped into the room, letting the door close behind me.
Mother looked up and smiled softly. "Back already?"
"There's been a summons," I said. "From the Eyrie. Lord Arryn wants to see me. I'll be leaving soon."
Her expression didn't change, but I saw the subtle pause in her hand, the stillness in her shoulders. She always masked worry with quiet grace.
"Will you need help packing?" she asked.
"No," I said gently. "Just… wanted to see you before I go."
I turned to Lysa and gave her a quick smile, ruffling her hair. "Don't burn the stew while I'm gone."
She stuck her tongue out at me, as usual. "Only if you promise not to get arrested by some fat lord."
I snorted and turned away, my thoughts already drifting to the Eyrie—the cold mountain winds, the high halls, and the Lord of the Vale who wanted a boy like me brought before him without chains.
Jinx quietly slipped through the back door of the house, the worn wood creaking underfoot. Behind him, Ser Alaric Mallor followed, though with a far more deliberate step.
What greeted them in the back yard was something straight out of a Northern saga.
There, standing like a weathered mountain among the trees, was Jinx's father.
He stood shirtless, towering at a staggering seven feet and two inches tall—broad as an Umber and built like an old war god gone to seed. His body was a fortress of dense muscle, the kind forged by decades of hard labor and harsher battle. Though time had softened him with a thin layer of fat around the middle, there was no mistaking the power that still resided in his frame. Old scars marked his chest and arms, each one a story from the past.
His hair was the color of old pine needles in the sun—light brown with streaks of silver at the temples, and it hung to his shoulders in thick, sweat-slick strands. His eyes, bright and fierce, were a clear and piercing blue, not unlike his daughter Lysa's. They shone with the clarity of a winter sky above the Wolfswood.
In his hands, he wielded a massive woodcutting axe—broad-bladed and worn smooth by years of use. With each swing, he split logs as wide as a man with the ease of someone snapping dry twigs. The dull thud of splitting wood echoed through the yard, rhythmic and unrelenting.
Alaric stopped in his tracks, blinking at the sight. "Seven hells…" he muttered under his breath. "That's the boy's father?"
Jinx smirked slightly. "Aye. That's him."
The giant of a man paused mid-swing and turned, catching sight of his son. His eyes crinkled with something that might have been warmth—or perhaps pride, hidden beneath his Northern stoicism.
"Well, well. Finally come to say your farewells, boy?" he said, setting the axe into a nearby stump with a crack and wiping sweat from his brow with a thick forearm.
"I figured you'd want to see me off," Jinx said, walking forward. "Lord Arryn's summoned me. Wants to meet the boy who killed twenty clansmen."
His father snorted and crossed his arms. "Huh. 'Bout time the highborn noticed you. Took 'em long enough."
There was a pause, the weight of unspoken things hanging in the air.
Then the old warrior stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on Jinx's shoulder. "Listen to me, lad. You're headed South now. That's a land full of clever cunts with softer hands and sharper tongues. They'll smile at you while thinkin' how to gut you in your sleep. Don't let their words twist your guts, y'hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Good. Be sharper than their smiles. Speak less than they do. And if they threaten your honor—remind them why Northerners still scare old women in King's Landing."
Jinx chuckled lightly. "And if they draw steel?"
His father's blue eyes gleamed. "Then send their pretty heads back up the mountain."
Then, his hand tightened briefly, grounding Jinx with a seriousness rare in the gruff man. "But don't forget this, lad—no matter how high up you climb, no matter how much silk they dress you in, you're of the North. The cold forged you. The snow raised you. Never be ashamed of that. Never."
Jinx nodded solemnly, the words taking root somewhere deep in his chest.
"I won't, Father."
The man gave a firm nod, then offered something close to a smirk. "Good. Now get goin' before your Southern escort wets himself waitin'."
As Jinx turned to leave, his father finally said, "Jinx… make 'em remember your name."
Jinx glanced back, and for a moment, that smirk of his father's was reflected in his own.
"I intend to."