A flaxen tuft emerged from midst the furs and wolfskins that covered the bed. The woollen blanket beneath them was warm, thank god, but unfamiliar to the senses, unkind to the touch. Like a strange woman's embrace, theirs was not to survive daybreak. Winter had come and the first snows had fallen the day before, but it was not yet so cold as to allow a man to see his breath. All the same an unforgiving chill nipped at the figure of white marble as it stretched every extremity and then sat up, slouched at first, and then straightened and rigid. Rude fingers removed sleep from pale blue eyes; a careless slap to the arm attempted to awake the solidly inert companion at its side.

Across the room a shield caught the first rays of sunlight and reflected them back at the pale blue. A surcoat, all red and white diamonds, was draped over part of it, but keen eyes could yet trace each quarter. Moon and falcon shone brightest of all, the broken wheel of Waynwood with its missing spoke catching the eye next. The field of diamonds evoked attention last of all, saved from confusion with the surcoat only by the grace of the duller tones of the paint.

Heir.

In truth his heart still stirred at the thought. Thrice an heir, per his arms. Heir to much and more, if Bronze Yohn was to be believed.

It had often seemed to him that everyone in the Vale of Arryn could recite his ancestry by rote. Worse – it had often seemed to him that everyone in the Vale of Arryn felt they had to recite his ancestry whenever they first met or spoke of him. He had long ago endeavoured to set to memory the exact circumstances by which he had come to be, in fuller detail than could be recited to him by others. His grandfather Ser Elys was the great culprit, a younger son blessed with comely features and a kind tongue. Duty and good sense had seen him dedicate his life's service to his brother and niece of Ironoaks, where he had been a household knight, captain of the guard, master-at-arms, castellan, even Regent and Protector. Praiseworthy in his diligence, his long face was still remembered fondly by men in Ironoaks and beyond.

In his youth Ser Elys had spent several years among his mother's people at Runestone. He had been received there as a ward of Lord Royce, and promoted in due time to page and squire. He earned his knight's spurs in the squire's melée at the tourney held there to celebrate the matrimony of his cousin Lady Jeyne Royce and Lord Jon Arryn, the young Falcon. Ser Elys had fought with unnatural strength that day, defending the honour of his beloved Lady Jeyne against many a challenger. According to Bronze Yohn, Ser Elys had fallen in love with Lady Jeyne the very first time he set his grey eyes upon her…and despite his broken heart at her nuptials, fighting for her honour had been his chance to prove himself to her publicly. His blade had struck all the truer, and a proud Lord Royce had knighted the lad himself.

This Jeyne Royce had been tall and handsome, but of a frail disposition, and prone to bouts of profound melancholy. Jon Arryn had wanted her all the same, and Lord Royce had been loathe to deny him. Jon Arryn had been handsome at the time, with all the vigour and promise of youth, but only Elys Waynwood could make her smile when sadness clouded her mind and she could scarce rise from her bed for days on end.

Lady Jeyne and Ser Elys were close…too close, some said, but even in the spring of his life Jon Arryn had been uxorious in the utmost. Ser Elys made Lady Arryn smile when he could not, and Jon would not send him away. It perhaps to put paid to spurious talk that Lord Arryn happily encouraged Ser Elys to wed the young Alys Arryn, his own maiden sister.

It was by way of this Lady Alys, his grandmother, that Harry derived his right to his beloved cream and sky blue, his double quartering of the Arryn moon-and-falcon sigil. With it, the Young Falcon sobriquet. Happy accident had removed eight uncles and aunts who might have stood ahead of him, and a couple cousins besides, leaving him as the heir to the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn.

The rich lands of Ser Elys had been lost long ago, traded back to Ironoaks with little care by his ever penurious father, but the comely man he'd never known had left him the arms of House Waynwood, to add to those of Hardyng his father had left him-

"Morning."

He turned to gaze upon his latest conquest. Mapel? Mabel? Her name evaded him, and in the morning's light she struck an altogether different picture than that which had enticed him into this tryst. Any semblance she had once borne to the Mockingbird's scion was but the bastard child of that fine Dornish strongwine from the night before.

Decorum demanded a smile and he was not one to shirk from duty. "Morning."

She moved to kiss him again but his lips, dry and chapped, would barely crack open before he pulled away and stood. A pleading hand reached over and sought to hold him, coax him back, but he dodged her shabby attempt at seduction and fumbled around for his woollen hose. He felt now the bitter thud of winter as it bit down on every inch of him, lamenting silently that he would soon have to abandon his preferred cut of upper hose for looser hanging slops which better covered him from waist to foot.

He would find the hose after a few quick instants, but not in time to avoid the unwelcome embrace and stuttering hands of the maid. He looked down on her smiling face with disdain, and thought for a minute to strike her away.

He emerged to find the castle and all the spirits within dead, wet, and dull. It had rained hail in the night, so heavily that one of the viewing stands for the tourney had collapsed on itself. Lord Nestor's voice could be heard booming up from the courtyard, barking orders and reprimanding whichever of his men he was holding responsible for the disaster. Littlefinger soon appeared at his side, speaking in quieter and more measured tones, his words indiscernible from the Falcon Tower.

Through the window the other two viewing stands could be seen - intact, but as wet as the bright banners which had been draped over them all in adornment. The courtyard was no drier, and even the rushes leading from Harry's room to the stairs seemed damp and soaked. Wherever he was, little Lord Robert would no doubt awake to the bitter news that his brotherhood of Winged Knights would be a while longer in the forming.