Brief A/N: Hi all, some of you, though not many I imagine, may be familiar with another GoT fic I used to write called From the Ashes, in which Jaime Lannister survives King's Landing. I didn't really feel inspired with it anymore, although it is possible I may take it up again at some point in the future. I have a good feeling about this fic though, but I can't promise how regular updates will be. :p

Without further ado:

On Golden Wings

Concentrate on the steel in your hand and your enemy's face. He'll give the game away when he's about to lunge, look at his mouth and his eyes.

The teachings of Jaime Lannister swirled through his head like smoke on the breeze, present but not intrusive. Most of Alaric's attention was, as his former mentor had ordered, focused on his blunted training sword and Ser Benedict Broom's aged, wise face as the two circled each other in the training yard at Casterly Rock. Sweat dampened his blonde hair and dripped down his forehead, and he found himself squinting a bit to see through the harsh sun's light. Ser Benedict always insisted upon training during the warmest parts of the day, to build up Alaric's endurance and stamina. He could practically hear the old codger now, from when they first met upon Alaric's arrival at Casterly Rock around eight years ago.

"Ignore the heat, Alaric. You won't get the comfort of the perfect time of day in a real battle, so there's no use getting accustomed to it," he'd said as he thoroughly out-sparred his younger opponent.

After what felt like an eternity Ser Benedict did, as Ser Jaime had told Alaric he would, give away the game and grimace as he lunged. With a deft parry and riposte the old master at arms found himself defeated, with Alaric's blade inches from his neck. With a laugh, Ser Benedict dropped his blade in surrender.

"Well fought, Alaric! You're a demon with that blade, my lad. Almost reminds me of Jaime at your age, I can see he taught you well back when you squired for him." Alaric grinned, practically glowing with pride; Ser Benedict never gave undeserved praise. Despite this, he did try his best to keep himself humble; undue arrogance had killed many a man.

"It was nothing, Ser Benedict, just a fluke. And I'm nothing on Ser Jaime, he's the best sword in the Seven Kingdoms now that Ser Arthur's dead and Ser Barristan has become so old. Jaime'd lop my sorry head off in about ten seconds."

Ser Benedict just shook his head, still grinning as the two of them put their training equipment back and splashed some water over their faces. "Aye, maybe, but he'd take about three with anyone else, so take what you can get," he said as he clapped Alaric on the back and began to leave. As he washed his hot, sweaty face off and pulled on some clothes nicer than the rags he'd been wearing to train in, he barely even felt the sun's heat anymore.

His self-contained revelry was rudely interrupted by a squire, red-faced and panting. The boy looked like he'd run there all the way from Dragonstone. "It's Lord Tywin, Ser Alaric. He wants to speak with you in his solar at your earliest convenience." Judging by the speed at which the messenger had clearly made his way here and nearly a decade's experience living with Tywin Lannister, Alaric inferred that "at your earliest convenicne" in reality meant "now."

"You may tell him I'll be there at once." As the squire scurried off to inform Lord Tywin, Alaric took his time putting on his favored sky-blue doublet and set off at a much more leisurely pace. It would have taken a while to reach the room anyway; the Rock was three times taller than the Wall up north and the solar of the Lord Paramount was rather near the top. When he finally reached the imposing oaken door, Tywin's voice boomed through it before Alaric even knocked.

"You may enter." Alaric obliged, and stepped through to find the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands , Tywin Lannister, sat at his desk with a raven scroll in front of him. Taking the hint, Alaric crossed the room and sat opposite Tywin, who pushed the scroll towards him. "Read it."

Alaric took the scroll in his hands, and began to read.

Lord Jon of House Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale and Warden of the East, has died of a fever. In his last moments, Lord Arryn disowned his son Ser Alaric Arryn. Ser Alaric Arryn is no longer to be considered an heir to the Vale, and as such all of Lord Arryn's lands and titles are to be passed to Robin Arryn when he comes of age.

Mind blank, Alaric simply placed the parchment down on the table for a moment and simply sat there. Tywin, across the table, seemed to be watching him carefully for his reaction. Eventually, the cold impassivity that had swept across his mind was replaced by a sharp, crimson rage, and Alaric had to stop himself from leaping from his chair and slicing the letter into tiny pieces with a battleaxe. Instead, his hands curled into fists and he looked up at Tywin. "My father didn't disown me." His voice seemed to almost vibrate with fury.

Lord Tywin arched an eyebrow. "It certainly says here that he did."

A nasty, derisive snort escaped the former Heir to the Vale. "Those are not his words, and not his actions. I'd wager a thousand dragons it was my bitch of a stepmother, trying to clear the way for her little Sweetrobin. My father has-" for a moment he stumbled over the crushing reality that Jon Arryn had died, "had no reason to rob me of my birthright like this."

Lord Tywin nodded briskly; it struck Alaric that the Old Lion had probably known this already, and had simply been testing how he would react to the news of his father's death and his own disinheritance. "I agree, it would be in keeping with her rather … touched nature." His eyes found Alaric's, and green met blue. "What will you do about it?"

At first a gaping pit of despair seemed to open in his stomach at the prospect of doing anything with the now nonexistent power he held, but reason prevailed, and managed to strongarm him into a response, albeit a glum one. "I don't believe there's much I can do, my Lord. The King will never listen to me, so I cannot appeal to the Crown for aid. I could travel to the Vale myself and hope to rally support enough to challenge Lysa's hold, and I might even win some support. Many of the Lords of the Vale have no love for Lysa or my sickly stepbrother, and will doubtless be angered I have been robbed of my claim; Lord Royce and Lord Redfort come to mind. But even if I do somehow raise an army and storm the Eyrie, King Robert will just crush us as traitors." It was almost painful to think about it. With a few sentences scrawled on a scroll, his entire life had been flattened.

Tywin smirked, almost a smile. Alaric hadn't been aware previously that the man could smile, but the day had been full of surprises so he took it in stride. "Would you be willing to hear my suggestion?"

From the man's tone and his reputation, Alaric deduced that these suggestions were demands, and that he had no choice but to listen to them. "Of course, my Lord."

With a businesslike manner Tywin rummaged in his desk for a moment for a parchment, which he placed on the table before the two of them. "I've taken the liberty of having a new sigil designed for you, seeing as you are no longer supposed to use the traditional Arryn sigil." The parchment displayed a bright gold falcon on a background of deep crimson; the colors of House Lannister. It was a striking coat of arms, Alaric had to admit. Before he could express his gratitude, Lord Tywin spoke again. "I've also had this forged for you, since it seems for now Robin Arryn will be taking up his father's sword." He then placed a rather long object wrapped in a red cloth on the table atop the parchment. Knowing what it likely was, Alaric unwrapped it to find a glittering sword in a handsome red leather sheath. Breathless, he grasped the hilt of the blade, wrapped in red leather to match the scabbard, and withdrew the sword smoothly. The finely polished blade reflected the sunlight flooding into the chamber, creating the brief illusion that the weapon was glowing with some magical light. The guard of the sword was steel, coated with gold and finely detailed to look like a pair of outstretched wings. The pommel was equally well-decorated, resembling the feathered head of a falcon, with two rubies for eyes and another grasped in its beak. Even his father's old sword, he thought, with its luminous silver-plated blade, could not hope to be as fine a weapon as this.

As Alaric swung it about a few times, it seemed to soar like a bird of prey, light and fast and immeasurably deadly. As he did so, Tywin continued. "It's forged of the finest castle steel, by a master smith from Lannisport. I had planned to give it to you before the news came, but it proved to be an opportune time; it was finished today. There is also," he strode over to an armor stand covered by a red curtain, and removed the cover, "this." A gleaming set of plate armor sat upon the stand. Most of it appeared rather similar to the armor worn by that of the highest ranking knights of House Lannister, with some key differences. The pauldrons, normally golden lion heads, were instead shaped like falcons. The helmet was also totally different; rather than the halfhelms normally worn by the Lannisters, it was an intricate barbute with gilded wings affixed to either side of the opening where the wearer's face would be. A large ruby was set in the center of the helmet, above the eyeslits. All of this was accompanied by a chainmail hauberk that was to be worn underneath the layer of plate, each steel ring gold-coated and shining. For a moment, Alaric was speechless, before he turned to Lord Tywin and rushed to speak.

"This must have cost you a fortune - it's more than I deserve. I can't possibly accept all of this, though I thank you for it." Tywin snorted, and grabbed his arm when Alaric attempted to slide the new sword back into its sheath.

"You can accept it, and you will. Your disenranchisement is an injustice, and many other nobles will see it that way. You will take up this sword, you will wear that armor, and you will ride to King's Landing on the morrow to meet up with the royal party before they make their way to Winterfell to appoint Stark as the new Hand of the King. You will befriend the royal children, if you can, but more importantly you will endear yourself to the lords of the court and make it clear you'd be a good Lord Paramount of the Vale. You'll gather support, from a collection of greedy lickspittles and lackeys most likely, who know a good opportunity when they see one. More importantly you will show the other Lords of the Vale just how much better you are than Robin. When they hear of what a gallant, noble man you've become, they'll begin to doubt our dear Lady Lysa." The Warden of the West paced over to another table, this one covered with a large, detailed map of Westeros. Alaric followed, feeling almost dazed with the gravity of the situation. Tywin gestured at the map, an even more serious tone creeping into his already humorless voice. "Before long now I expect there will be another war. Things aren't right and the Crown grows weaker by the day, it is only a matter of time before the whole of the Seven Kingdoms will be at war. When that happens, you," Lord Tywin's green eyes once again met Alaric's blue ones, "will rally what support you can from your new allies in King's Landing and enter the Vale. Many of the lords there will flock to your banner, and you will reclaim your birhright."

Alaric found his voice as Tywin paused. "The Vale is impregnable, how would I get past the Bloody Gate? What kinds of allies would I find in King's Landing? Who-" Tywin cut him off tersely. "That will be up to you, you seem clever enough. Now, once you prove victorious and reign over the Vale as Lord Paramount, I will arrange for a marriage between you and Princess Myrcella once it is proven that you're a suitable leader. You will provide heirs to House Arryn and secure your own legacy." Alaric knew that, conveniently for Tywin, his great-grandchildren would rule over another of the Seven Kingdoms and secure the Lannister legacy too, but he chose not to voice this observation. "Does this plan seem agreeable to you, Ser Alaric?"

He knew he had but one response. "It does, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

Tywin clapped him on the back, approvingly. "Good. Now, go collect your things and prepare to leave; you must go tomorrow to meet the royal caravan in time."

The following day, Ser Alaric Arryn rode through the Lion's Mouth, the legendary gates of Casterly Rock, in gleaming gilded armor on a white stallion. A glittering sword hung by his side, and a crimson shield with a golden falcon emblazoned on it was fastened to his saddle. A red cloak flowed like a river of blood in the air behind him as his pale blonde hair was also stirred by the breeze. In his wake rode his young page, Damon Wydman. Alaric was still downtrodden from the news of the previous day, but he was bolstered by a new hope, a new dedication, a new determination. He would rise again, he told himself, from this pit he had been cast into by his stepmother, and he would do it while flying on golden wings. With a shout, he spurred his horse and raced east to the Capital, followed by his squire and the watchful, calculating gaze of the Warden of the West, as he gazed down from the Rock.

Thanks for reading, ladies and gents. As always, please leave any criticism, praise, predictions, or other feedback you might have in a review, so I know how I might be able to improve. It helps a lot! I'll hopefully have the next chapter out soon, but I make so promises as to when. Until then, goodbye, and thanks again for taking the time to read my story.