The dawn broke cold over the Eyrie, its sharp light casting long shadows across the stone walls. Baldwin stood on the battlements, the weight of his greathelm pressing down as his eyes scanned the horizon. Blue wings of metal gleamed on either side of his helm, catching the morning sun like a promise — a promise of honor, duty, and unyielding loyalty.
At eighteen, Baldwin carried more than just the name Arryn. Though born a bastard, he was the son Jon Arryn had seen enter the world with his own eyes. Jon Arryn had taken the boy under his wing from the very beginning, forging him into a knight worthy of the Vale. Baldwin's greatsword, a mighty Zweihänder, rested heavy in his hands, a symbol of his readiness for the battles yet to come.
His armor bore the sigil of House Arryn proudly. On his back, vivid blue feathers rose like wings, a reminder of the sky and freedom his house had long been known for. His loyal companion, a fierce Mongolian eagle, circled above, its keen eyes ever watchful.
Years ago, at just fourteen, Baldwin had tasted blood and fire during the brutal assault on Pyke. The clash of steel and cries of war had shaped him as much as his father's guidance. But it was King Robert's recognition that truly changed his fate — at seventeen, the king had legitimized him as a true Arryn, binding his destiny to the realm.
Now, the Vale stood on uncertain ground. Jon Arryn, the steadfast Lord of the Eyrie, had died in King's Landing, his body taken by poison unknown to most — including Robert and Baldwin himself. The weight of that secret hung over Baldwin like a shadow.
With Robert heading north, Baldwin rode beside him, a loyal brother in arms, ready to face the coming storms. In Winterfell, Lord Ned Stark awaited, unaware of the poison that had claimed his old friend. And Baldwin? He wore his armor almost always, save for moments in quieter chambers where only a simple gambeson kept him ready for whatever honor or betrayal fate might bring.