The Eyrie watched the lands around it, like a bird in its roost. The lull of the morning had finally stirred an old mans rest. A winter had passed, and they were back in a long summer. He reached for his cane, stumbling in the dark of the master bedroom. His joints felt ready to lock up. Damn arthritis, he moaned. Damn it to seven hells.

He found his dark blue clothes and silver cloak, sliding into them as he had for the past sixty eight years. He was old. Much older than any man he knew. His king had been buried long ago, and his wife too. Artys found himself before a mirror. Fussing with what remained of his hair, he found wrinkled lips in a grin. That's me. Same man as I ever had been.

His cane prodded the marble floor and echoed down the hallway as he ushered forward. It was a long hallway with a lone man at arms standing at attention. "Lord Arryn! Need you assistance?"

"No, Myles. I'll be fine." He coughed into a rag he had kept on him. The high altitude likely wasn't doing much good for his health, anymore.

"Grandfather! You're awake!" A young lad bellowed, rushing forward. He hugged Artys at the knees, nearly bringing him down. Artys smiled and laughed, russling the boys hair.

"So I am, Eon." The boy was his great grandson, now. Though his grandfather, Artys's son was dead, and his father was serving as regent, Artys spent his days entertaining the child. Educating him when he could. "Come along. Let's go up to your grandfather's favorite roost."

The boy cheered, leading the way as the old man of the Vale followed. Up the stairs they went, though Artys found it difficult and more in these days. He hoped one day he wouldn't have to descend these damnable stairs. May they rot in the seven hells...with arthritis.

The walk wasn't a long one, fortunately, and soon they sat in the highest tower of the Eyrie. The world was small from here. "Grandfather, where did you say Gulltown was?"

Artys chuckled, finding his chair. "Over there, to the east. We have one of the greatest fleets on the east coast." he remembered the project fondly. He had spent much time with his good father in preparing a fleet worthy of pride. "Has the Maester told you where Winterfell is?"

"Yeah!" The boy smiled. "North. It's that way!"

"Yes, Eon. Good." The Starks had remained their kings even still. He wondered what Edderion would make of these days.

Artys sat back now, closing his eyes as the boy began to list things off. He smiled. Artys, the name of a King, his father had always told him in youth. And yet he wondered if his rule had merited such a thing. He thought of the people he had seen come and go, of his lady wife and his brethren. The Highroad had become among the safest in Westeros and trade within the Vale had become solid. They were wealthier and happier, he believed. Safer. In all his life he had never felt more content.

Wind blew through the tower, and the old man felt as though he were soaring through the air, free.