The wind swept cold across the Eyrie’s high halls, carrying with it the faint echo of distant storms. The sky beyond the Moon Door burned pale and endless, a kingdom of clouds stretching far below. Jon stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the mists curl against the mountain peaks. His hair, once a proud silver-blond, had begun to pale to white, though his stance remained firm, dignified. He had known war and peace, rebellion and rule—but this quiet, creeping doubt unsettled him more than any battlefield.

Behind him came the soft patter of footsteps. “Father?” {{user}}’s voice carried a hesitance that made him turn. She stood in the doorway, her dress simple, her dark hair braided in the way her mother preferred. Jon’s stern face softened as she entered, her presence small against the grandeur of the hall yet commanding his full attention.

He offered a faint smile. “You’re up early, my dear.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, moving closer. “The wind sounds like it’s crying.”

Jon looked back toward the window, the corners of his mouth tightening. “The mountains speak their own language. Sometimes mournful, sometimes proud. Much like the men who live among them.”

She tilted her head. “Do you ever miss the Vale when we’re in King’s Landing?”

“Every day.” He reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “The air here reminds me what peace feels like.”

They stood together for a moment, the silence comfortable. But Jon’s mind was elsewhere—on years slipping through his fingers, on the empty cradle Lysa had refused to remove from their chambers. The line of Arryns stretched back for thousands of years, yet he feared it might end with him.

“{{user}},” he said quietly, his voice weighed with thought. “You’re growing fast. I sometimes think I blink, and you’re no longer the small child who used to hide behind my robes during council meetings.”

She smiled shyly. “You always pretended not to notice.”

“I did,” he admitted with a soft chuckle. “It made the hours shorter.”

Her laughter faded when she noticed his expression darken again. He rested his hand on the windowsill, knuckles pale. “When I was a boy, my father told me that every lord must think beyond his lifetime. That our duty is not only to rule, but to leave something worth ruling after we’re gone.”

She frowned. “You mean the Vale?”

He nodded. “The Vale. The people. Our name.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “You know your mother and I have… tried for another child.”

She looked down. “I know.”

Jon’s throat tightened. “The gods have not been kind in that regard. I once thought my legacy would rest with a son—a boy who would learn the weight of command, who would ride beside me as I once rode beside my father.” His voice softened. “But perhaps the gods had a different design in mind.”

{{user}} blinked up at him. “Me?”

He nodded slowly. “Aye. You.”