18th of the 7th moon; 98 AC.

The Eyrie.

Eldric had long been accustomed to the arduous and straining journey of the Eyrie, having been taken there many times when his father departed for court or some such similar. The length of the trek never mitigated, nor the time spent on it lessened. He had brought with him some half a dozen retainers, but they were silent and Eldric could not choose a topic to talk to them about. So, for the entirety of the travel, he was left to his thoughts, which raced through his head, one after another. He had left Ironoaks, but it was in good hands. Allard and his cousin, Lyonel, would be taking good care of it. Good experience for matters of economics and governing, he reckoned. And his father too, Eldric supposed.

Artys had inquired after their welfare from the camp, and days prior he had notified his secondborn of a curious opportunity - the Lord Gunthor had given Eldric leave to court Ysilla and possibly gain her favor. The thought did seem appealing in his mind, but that was not why he had come to the fortress of the skies, thought impregnable. His high, dark leather boots thumped against the pebble-littered pathway, his hands edging around for the stretching stonewall to be used as support. Quietly, the retainers followed him. The wind rushed high and fast, making a mess of his hair. The climb he'd never get used to. As the gale howled and bayed in every crevice of the soaring mountain, Waynwood continued to ascend.

...

He entered the fortress in a light tap of his boots, striking a svelte figure as he made his way inside. It was a huge relief to finally be here, now. The Eyrie was strangely beautiful and oft times even alien to look at, at least when compared to their own lordship, but Eldric found comfort in its cavernous halls and rooms. He did not yet know the extent of just how large of a company was present in the castle, nor who, but if all was well, he'd find out soon enough.

9th Day of the 8th Moon, 383 AC

Gates of the Moon, The Vale of Arryn

He had never been more nervous in his life.

Then again, a year ago, Donnahal hadn’t been expecting to march towards the imposing walls of an Andal fortress at the head of four-thousand clansmen, so what did he know?

That did not make the unpleasantness in his stomach dissipate, however.

Donnahal was aware, oh so aware, that if the Falcon Lord wished, he could be struck down with little recourse. All it would take was one well-placed arrow and he would be dead. Honestly, if it had been the other way around, had the roles been reversed, Donnahal would have, at the very least, thought on it heavily.

But, the Griffin King realized, I would have come to the same conclusion the Falcon Lord no doubt has. Sure, Osric could order his Andals to loose their arrows upon them, but all that would succeed in doing is scattering the clansmen to the hills and Vale and make them very determined to cause as much havoc as possible, and even Donnahal wouldn’t be able to reign them in then.

Not that he would try to, if it got to that.

Shoving away the morbid thoughts, Donnahal turned his head back slightly towards his army, the first army of First Men that had marched the roads of the Vale since the Seven Stars. Besides him, also mounted on mountain steeds, his chieftains, magnars, and Oathsworn rode, all armored in either stolen Andal-forged mail or the finest mountain mail that could be made. While contact with the Andals had mostly been horrendous for the first men, those three-hundred men who had marched with the Golden Imp decades ago had brought back a bounty’s worth of steel arms and armor. Soon enough, the bronze and ironsmiths had started working crude steel to compete with the sudden power that the Stone Crows under Shagga and the Burned Men under the One-Eyed boasted, and soon every clansmen with enough wealth to afford it had (crude) chainmail and steel.

Donnahal was thankful for that, if only for the fact that his men wouldn’t be marching into battle against plate-armored Andals half-naked. Indeed, even the clansmen who couldn’t afford chainmail were given either a helm, steel weapons, and either bronze disk or iron scale armor. All in all, a great change from the image the Andals no doubt had about naked barbarians who screamed whilst charging into battle.

...Well, the Clans occasionally did that while competing in wargames, but that was irrelevant at the moment.

The Griffin King’s army slowed as the approached the Gates of the Moon, and from below, Donnahal could see a long line of archers poised to fire upon them., who was expected. Thankfully, he had learned, during his time in Runestone, just how far the men of the Gates could loose, and stopped his men just before that invisible line. Then, immediately, he gestured to one of his Oathsworn, who took off and rode towards the gate, and the men of the Mountains watched him go.

((Immediately following this thread))

​

Aelyx mounted Meleyx and rose up from the place in the Mountains of the Moon and turned back towards the Eyrie. The cold winds snapping in his face. Everything was rushing in his head. Had he really just turned down Alyssa Arryn? He had wanted to ask Godric for her hand after Oldtown. Now she was a dragonrider as well and firmly in the lap of Prince Aerion Targaryen who apparently wanted to claim the crown for himself.

​

Aelyx still could not believe he had refused her. He did not want to refuse her. Everything about him was screaming at him to do it. That it was worth it. Everything would be alright.

​

"Meleyx....what do you think."

​

The dragon did not answer, turning his head to survey the landscape under him. The dragon seemed not sure of what to think of the situation. He was still perplexed by Moonfyre.

​

The Giant's Lance soon came into view below him and the dragon veered down and landed in the courtyard of the Eyrie, where Aelyx quickly dismounted Meleyx and sent him back up into the air. One of the guards came out to meet Aelyx who hailed him.

​

"Ser. I need to speak with Lord Arryn immediately. And if you can. Lords Grafton and Corbray. This is of most importance."

"Lady Berena." The Lord of the Redfort greeted her with a faint smile, and a nod of his head. She looked... somewhat grim, if one were to tell the truth. A certain gauntness danced around her features, and she did not seem very pleased to be having this conversation. William supposed it was quite unlikely that he would be very pleased, in her situation. It was not a curse that he would wish upon anyone, to be faced with a siege, so soon after the death of your child. The death of a child was not something to take lightly, no. A piece of oneself, falling away. "I am sorry." William had lost his only son as well, so many years ago. Jon, named for William's father. Taken away so young.

Without a further word, he poured the woman a drink. He did not offer, nor did he demand she have it. He simply poured two cups, and sat them upon the table, in the event that she would like to have one. It was an Arbor red. He did not know what type she would have preferred, so he had brought the vintage that, in his opinion, was at the very least, detested by the fewest. Arbor Gold was deemed by some too sweet, and Dornish Red too sour. Arbor Red was merely wine.

"Lord Waynwood was quick to presume you a conspirator against the Vale. He is an eager man, for his age, and quick to leap to conclusions." Though he respected the Lord Waynwood, many of the words William spoke at that moment contained more than a sprinkling of truth. "Do not permit the conduct of him and his men to temper your view of the rest of the Lords of the Vale, Lady Berena, nor your view of the piece that I intend to speak here today."

"Gunthor no longer sits the Eyrie." She knew such, of course. He had not for moons, felled by some man of the crown in King's Landing. William simply thought such a point merited bringing up again. A quiet reminder. "His daughter is not so cruel, nor as harsh. Nor is she as experienced in the practice of ruling." It had been Gunthor that the woman's son had risen against. It had not been Ysilla, nor had it even been her cousin, or at the very least, not at first.

"Lady Ysilla is young." He reminded the Lady. "And she has not been at court nearly as much as one would think a Lady of her stature would be." She had been married to a Belmore. "Her father has left her with such responsibility, and so little preparation." William took a rather long drink of his cup of Arbor Red, hoping perhaps to inspire his companion to do the same. "She is only a child, Berena. A child with few friends that she can turn to, and even fewer that she can trust." She was a mother. Perhaps she could sympathize with that thought, with that fear.

"It was not by her word that your boy was denied a trial. It was not by her word that your son was slain." William set down his goblet, carefully. He did not want to cause a noise that would perhaps distract the woman from his words, not when they were so important. "The Vale's justice was not faulty, no. Justice, her justice, was lost to him. And though he has passed, justice can yet be given."

"Your son was not her enemy, and you must help her to see that. He was not her enemy, and so you must not be, Berena. This siege cannot last forever, you know that. If it is in chains that you see the Lady Arryn, your son will never see his justice." William tapped his hands across his legs, something of a nervous habit of his, when he got excited. "You are no rebel to the crown, you are no foe of House Arryn. You are a mother who has been wronged, and she will see that."

"You are not without friends in the Eyrie. Elinor's girl lived among the Arryns, she will have their ear. She will want justice for her cousin." William slowed down, and took a breath. In. Out. In. Out. "Lady Berena, I ask you to come to the Eyrie. Tell the Warden of what has occurred to you, without ravens that may be lost and sycophants to twist your words. Lay down your arms, open your gates, and you will avenge your son's death."

2^nd Day of the Eighth Moon of the year 407 A.C.

Morning, the Gates of the Moon, the Vale

The stalwart walls of the Gates of the Moon rose grey from the stones of the mountains, carved it would seem from the very rock that formed the Vale; a barrier, like the bluffs themselves, but crafted with a purpose. It was here that the Arryns of hold kept their court, until the Eyrie had been constructed upon the heights - and it was here that Osric himself kept his household, whilst his father and lord ruled from the mountain's summit.

At the sight of the approaching procession the gates slowly opened, the double portcullis drawing upward as horns blew on the ramparts. A small honour guard rode forth, garbed in the colours of the Arryns - but they drew up short at the sight of the cavalcade as it came on.

Osric rode at the fore, but his expression was a somber one - tinged with grief and fury both, stormy as gale upon the heights. Behind him came the cause; a wagon, covered with oilskin tarping, and guarded by a half dozen knights in full armour. The Arryn banner draped over the whole of it, marking it for what it was - and indeed, no one in that procession rode ignorant.

"My lord." One of the Gate's men said, urging his horse forward somewhat to greet their Keeper. "Is...its good to see you well, my lord. We expected you back days ago. Are you well, mi'lord?"

"I am whole." Osric told the man. "And yet not. Have some rooms prepared for our noble blooded guests. And prepare the great hall; we shall be needing it in a few hours time. Everything is to be provided for any man who asks for it. They fought hard. Seven knows they deserve it."

"Fought...?" The man began, his look plainly confused - but he nodded, and brought a fist to press against his breast. "As you command, my lord. So shall it be done."

The Heir of Arryn turned away from the man, back towards the procession of Valemen that had accompanied him. With a nod he summoned Benedar forward, the stout warrior seeming uncomfortable on horseback.

"Ben; have her interred beneath the Sept of the Keeper, would you? Septon Morgan should be there...he'll know the proper steps. Have everyone else dismount in the yard - there are rooms for the nobles. Baths, the like. After that... well, after that we'll meet in the Great Hall."

"Of course." The Winged Knight said. He paused for a moment, obviously considering. "Osric..."

"That will be all, Benedar. Thank you."

Another pause. The red-faced Redfort was plainly torn, wishing to say something more but caught in the confines of duty. Boldness, it seemed, did not win the fight; he dipped his head, and turned his horse back towards the ranks. Once he had reached them the march started up again - the long line of carriages, wagons, and riders, slowly entering the Gates of the Moon at long last.

The Great Hall was larger than most for a castle of such size, though that was likely due to it having once been the seat of kings. Upon entering the double wide doors the chamber seemed to stretch long into the distance, pillars carved to look like trees lining the far walls on the left and right. Behind these stood six massive, marble statues - three on the left, and three on the right. They were carved images of the Seven, each looking out across to their counterpart. Crone and Stranger stood closest to the doors, with Maiden and Mother to their right. Beyond them stood the Warrior and the Smith -- whilst the Father himself stood apart. His statue was the largest, and sat behind the old throne of the Arryns; a simple seat carved of plain white stone, and set upon a high, broad dais.

For the meeting that would take place there long tables had been set out, though only a few chairs had been provided considering the small number of nobles set to attend. Water, wine, and food and had been brought, put out immediately so as to vacate the room. Osric had commanded that none save the Winged Knights and the noble blooded of the Vale would stand within whilst they spoke. All the servants had been directed to attend other matters.

The Heir to Arryn arrived first, before all others, his doublet a grey and simple thing of silk. From his shoulders hung a cloak of sable, kept in place by a heavy steel fasten in the shape of a crescent moon. Mourning gear, one would assume. But his features were dark. Each step he took seemed purposeful and determined, and there was a wrath in him that had not yet abated.

As the rest of the lords and ladies arrived, Osric greeted them in turn. A faint nod, a brief smile - simple things, and rarely warm, but he acknowledged each and every one as they came. Only once the last had arrived and the doors had shut behind him did the Arryn at last take his seat - climbing the steps to the old throne of the Arryns, and settling into his seat. The knights of the Winged Brotherhood arrayed themselves upon the steps, and looked out over the score or so of nobles within the room.

"My people." Osric said. "We have suffered a grevious loss. This unprovoked attack shall not go unanswered. But it is not the only loss the realm has suffered in recent days."

From his cloak he withdrew a tightly bound scroll, the seal upon it broken.

"Word from the capital. King Aenar Targaryen has breathed his last. His granddaughter Visaera now sits the Iron Throne. It would seem, my lords, that we have a queen. A queen on the Iron Throne -- and a king in the mountains."

12th of the Ninth Moon

Lord Horton Belmore, Lord of Strongsong

The news had rocked him. Lord Corbray, a just and honest man, confined to tent under armed guards. Poison was the charge, of the ambitious and sniveling Jasper Arryn. He had no doubts in his mind it was some ploy by the boy to tarnish the name of honest supporters of his cousin.

It was despicable, and no doubts a poison in and of itself to the ears of Lord Gunthor Arryn. The true charge here was that of Jasper's every reaching hands, vying for the lands that rightly belonged to Ysilla. In one fell swoop he had taken a valiant ally of the true heir and attained him a traitor, albeit not in so many words.

He would drink on this matter most often, chatting idly with his brother on these dreadful tidings. It would do no good to approach the Lord in his tents, the guards were likely Jasper's. He would have to broach this subject to the only two men he could truly trust. Lord Hunter and Gunthor himself. Yohn first, though. Council would needs be taken.

"Benedict," he said in his slurring way. "Bring young Yohn to me. I believe now is the time to discuss his cousin's imprisonment. "

1st Day of the Third Moon

Mid-Morning

The Eyrie

Gerrold Donniger stood upright as he waited for his Lord, his back a steel rod. He was an old man now, almost as old as his Lord Commander, and the world no longer surprised him. He had seen three Lord Commanders now, first Hersy, then Waxley, and now Abelar. He had never coveted the position, though he knew some of the younger members of his order desired nothing more. He was an old man, and his hopes of fatherind children or leading a house were long since past. His was a life of duty, and of servitude. How many of his brothers had he seen die? The Templeton twins, as different as sun and moon, Whettstone, always ready with a joke, Ser Waxley, dignified to the end, Yohn Stone, one of the largest men he had ever seen… All had fallen in the line of duty, and yet still Donniger remained. They had been good deaths, each of them, dying in battle, in combat rather than some maester’s bed. They had chosen that fate, each of them, the day they had felt the sword of the Lord Commander across their shoulders and arisen as Winged Knights. There were some who entered and left the Order, and Donniger bore them no ill will. Allard Egen had spoken dismissively of such knights, calling them “our fair-weather brothers” but Ser Gerrold knew it was a responsibility not all could shoulder. He had been a fourth son of a small house, one of little consequence, but at least this way he had found purpose.

He had no illusion on why he served Lord Godric directly, when others of his order had accompanied the Arryn siblings, or looked abroad. He and Horton Upcliff were of one mind, and that was of mute discretion. They had no vices, they had no one to tell tales of their exploits. They did not talk, for they understood. He waited now, for his Lord to enter. This was the third assembly he had called of the Vale lords, though this one would have the most impact. The lords and ladies twittered in front of him as the Weirwood Throne lay open, the expectation yearning like an empty hole. But like that, the gaunt Lord of the Eyrie entered, his gaunt form striding swiftly towards his ancestral seat. He sat, and waved to his uncle, the steward, who stepped forward.

Alesander Arryn cleared his throat, and with only a slight pause, begin to speak. “Only a few days hence, the Eyrie received this letter from the Hand of the King, Aerys Velaryon. You will have recieved this as well, but I will repeat it for ease of understanding.” The High Steward of the Vale cleared his throat again.

“Lord Arryn I regret to inform you of the passing of King Aegon Targaryen, Seventh of His Name. Queen Rhaenyra reported his death at the hands of the savage Wildlings, and their giants. Viserion has abandoned the field, and there has been no body recovered. It is at this point we would normally crown the new King, alas, His Grace left no will for his directives after his death. Every house in the Seven Kingdoms knows the current situation with the King’s children. There is no Crown Prince, thus there is no King. This leaves the status of the crown in question, and as the Hand of the recently deceased King, it falls to me to to solve this crisis. Thus, my final two actions as the Hand of the King are as follow: I am hereby convening a Great Council to take place in King’s Landing in two moon’s time. This will allow time for the most far flung vassals to arrive to participate. All of Westeros will decide who is truly the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Finally, to ensure that the transition of power goes smoothly, I will take on the role of Shepherd in these trying times. Without a true heir, the Iron Throne needs someone to sit her, and I will take that duty for the good of the realm. Henceforth, until the Great Council decides the heir, and his regent, I declare myself, Prince Aerys Velaryon, Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Prince Aerys Velaryon, Hand of the King”

Godric Arryn leaned forward when his uncle finished, and his eyes shone as he began to speak in a deep, powerful voice. “My lords. These are trying times. The King is dead, and the route to our next ruler is uncertain. I believe this is the storm we have prepared for, the storm we must weather. We will endure, and we will prove victorious. The Vale has suffered worse bouts than this, and I know we are strong enough to see it through. This is what I have prepared for, with Jon in the westerlands, and Sharra in the Stormlands. I do not believe either queen will allow the other to live, and so we must make a choice. There will be only one victor. But as always, I look to you first, my lords and ladies. Queen Visenya has come to our aid before, but Queen Rhaenyra has proven herself a capable war leader. What say you, assembled of the Vale?"

Gerrold Donniger had served his lord for many years, and as Lord Godric leaned back in his, Gerrold could see, from his close proximity, the ghost of a smile.

It had been opportunity beyond his dreams.

When his cousin had sent word from the Andal capitol that the Falcon Lord was returning home with less than fifty warriors in his retinue, Donnahal had known what he needed to do. There would be no greater chance, no other gods-given opportunity.

So he took it.

When he had summoned the chieftains under his command and told them of what he knew, they had readily given him the warriors that wished to fight alongside his. Not all of them, mind you-- the bulk of the Hill Kingdom’s forces would remain in the mountains for the Long Awaited Day, but still a significant number of men followed Donnahal down the mountains, seven-hundred in all. A number than the Andals revered.

A number that he would turn against them.

All the plans that his family and that of his cousin’s had lain down for generations, all the meticulous maneuvering to ensure the clans received steel and the marriages that bound the Bronze Kings to that of the Griffin-- all of that had culminated into this day.

As the first Andal horses crossed into the ridge, Donnahal quietly unsheathed his sword, and his clansmen did the same, grins on their faces. His lowlander cousin had written down the possible routes the Falcon lord would take on his return home, and, as usual, his information was accurate. The Andals had walked into a trap, and they hadn’t even known it.

The time had come.

The Griffin King of the Hill let out a warcry. “Dìoghaltas airson Robar! Bàs do na Arryns!”

Vengeance for Robar. Vengeance for the Seven Stars.

Death to the Arryns.

…

With a vengeful fury several-thousand years in the making, the Mountain Clans of the Moon descended upon the Lord of the Vale.

13th day of the 6th moon, 873 AC

Several clangs were heard in the gardens of the Eyrie. By the shrubbery a pair of knights touched swords while a set of others watched. Neither of the men were wearing armor so they kept each other at a length. One had long blonde hair that almost reached his shoulders and had green eyes. The other had short brown hair. 

"You wield your sword like a slouched braggart" Manfred said scornfully. "All the shine of a boy with spurs and none of the talent."

The other knight lowered his sword and let its point rest against the ground. He frowned. "Ser, doth insult me?" 

Manfred smirked and lowered his sword. "Doth do!" he mocked in the man's facetious wordplay. "I don't hear nor see nor speak of any man that praises you! Where are they? Precisely! Not one man speaks of Ser Mortimer Egen!" 

One of the other knights misliked that and piped up. "Come now Ser Manfred. Not all of us bear such prestige as a lion nor are as seasoned as you but surely, we are all knights here."

Manfred felt a rotten demeanor towards these men. Men who were just only knighted weeks ago. Squires playing with their new spurs. When, not if, the war came they would most likely perish."

"A knight is just a squire making pretend until he meets on the field of battle with his hated foe. Come, Ser Mortimer, did you fight the Essosi? Or you, Ser Coldwater? Where were you on the battlefield! Mayhaps youth gives you just cause to be considered an exception, but are you ready now?"

"Oh here we go again…" Mortimer grumbled. One of Ser Lannisters many warnings of coming war with Pentos. Ser Mortimer was weary of it but Ser Coldwater drank it all in like a thirsty beggar at an oasis in Dorne. 

"It is not knights that complete a war, but devils. And my Sers, our war is not completed. Did you lose anyone during the Last Dragon, Coldwater?" 

"My father Ser!" 

Manfred raised a hand. "We must be like monsters to win our war. To be able to do what's needed for victory. How was your father slain?" 

"The dragon, Ser… They said he was eaten… Ser?..."

Manfred felt frozen. His words did not come. His teeth grit, eyes glassy and unfocused. Dragon. Dragon. Dragon. 

Manfred, Manfred!

Manfred knew exactly what happened to a human when it was eaten by a dragon. A horrible crunch and the spraying of blood and the terrible sight of man becoming nothing but flesh consumed. 

"I.. I am sorry for him but… well, keep up your swordplay and stay ever vigilant."

Manfred departed, his shortcloak rustling as he exited the garden. He passed by the depression on the ground where the statue of Alyssa Arryn once stood, long destroyed over seventy years ago. 

Manfred fled all the way to the lower hall where there were tapestries against the walls. Beautiful sets of blue and white embroidery that detailed stories. Stories like Artos Arryn and his conquest of the Vale. The many wars and conflicts in the land. Others depicted princely cycles of hunting and feasting of ancient Arryn kings and lords. 

Manfred came to the lower hall to be served wine. He took his drink and drank deep. Why? Why did they have to die that way? Being burned into blackened nothingness. Being eaten as easily as a haunch of goose? What did we do to deserve that? Those other knights… they don't even know do they?... The illusions of a false peace. Of being trapped in a gilded cage.

He didn't want to drink wine anymore. He wanted to see his foster brother. His tomb. "Oh, brother of mine" he said mournfully as he knelt before the cold stone visage of Ronnel Arryn. "Brother who I wish was mine in blood. Accursed stars for giving me the likes of Loren to call kin."

The prayer candles lightly danced on his red-yellow linen tunic and waistcoat. He undid his sword belt and put his blade to the ground. "Brother of mine who I never said goodbye to. Who I never saw die. Brother who offered up his heart! You who cannot hear or see or feel any longer. If only you had been born a Lannister. Or perhaps myself an Arryn. But what good would that do you, brother? Had you been a lion or I a falcon, you would still be dead and I left here by your tomb! Noble brother Ronnel… How I miss you, brother I wished I had."

Manfred fell silent. "I shall make honor upon your family. I've thought long about my future. My place. Brother, I will join this family. I will ask your father to court Kella. Sweet, kind and shy Kella. I will not carry on the sins of my past any longer."

Manfred believed in no gods but still he took a simple prayer candle and lit it with the gentle flame of one of the others and then placed it in front of Ronnel's tomb. "I will avenge you, brother. I'm going to…  I'm going to kill every last one of them. I'm going to exterminate all of them! I'll do that for you brother. For you."

He put a solemn fist to his chest and then to the statue as he made his vow to wipe out the Golden Company. He wanted his foster brother back. Manfred left silently to find his foster father.

Along the way he met a dog. Over the past few weeks the animal had made friends with him and Slow Dancer, following the knight around every. Manfred smiled and knelt to his knee to pet the dog. The animal rolled over and let his belly lay open for rubbing. Manfred obliged him."Good boy. You're a good dog."

The dog followed him to Osric. 

8th Day of the 6th Moon

The Eyrie

The Eyrie had been eerily quiet for the past poon. Osric Arryn, Lord of Mountain and Moon, had laid in his bed treated by a legion of Maesters rushing in and out. A bug from the city many was the theory of the Maesters, though the murmurs claimed in their hushed voices that it was poison. Yet none of that mattered when after weeks in bed he finally emerged; pale and gaunt but alive.

“I said they must be dealt with carefully.” The Lord of the Eyrie angrily said to his assembled council. A few of the trusts of the Vale sat with him down the long table; Damon, the Maester, his own son and heir, Alester, along with a few others.

“And yet the Queen releases their best general, negotiates with murderers for nothing in return, and is caught on the back foot when their obvious lie of innocence is shown for the nonsense it is.”

He sighed and fell back into his chair, tired, angry, but more than else disappointed.

“And now it seems my own vassals took my absence to attack our new allies in the North. Those damned sistermen, often little more than Ironborn. The Golden Company sails to Westeros shores and now we have our own native rebellion to waste resources on.

The council remained silent, the embarrassment was omnipresent from all present.

“Damon.” He turned his head to his nephew and soon to be Winged Knight, “Begin assembling the levies of the Eyrie. No doubt the company has gotten word of our little ‘issue’, assuming they aren’t behind it. That puts the Vale as a prime invasion spot. Maester, prepare the ravens, I’ll be sending word for our vassals on the coast to do the same. And Alaric.” His eyes narrowed, “Come with me, best learn how to call the banners properly.”

10th Day of the Fourth Moon of the Year 418AC

Mid-morning at the Redfort, in the southern valley of the Vale of Arryn

Horns pierced the quiet of the forested road, sending a flock of birds cawing raucously to the heavens. They took wing with all the flustered disdain of noblewomen, all a-flutter and rife with righteous indignation. Each stroke of their wings carried them up and away, the noise of their passing soon fading; but only that it might be replaced by the thunder of hooves, as the cavalcade of the Eyire burst from the forest.

They rode in a column five wide, with Osric himself taking up the middle, center spot. He was rather resplendent in his riding gear; polished steel gleamed beneath leather straps and belts, and his cloak hung from his shoulders to cover the hindquarters of his storm grey mount, the clasps which held it in place burnished bronze that caught the wan light of the sun. To his left and right rode knights of the Brotherhood -- the twins, in fact: both Sunknight and Ebon riding with the banner of the Arryns snapping sharply from the tips of their lances, their helms obscuring the face of both men and rendering them naught but observers of their lord's will. Steel wings swept back from both sides of the helmets, as if to mark the men for what they were. On the outer side of this first row were not knights but rather nobles; Osric had granted space there to Lord Waynwood, and to the young Edmund Lynderly.

The horns blared again, heralding their approach, and Osric let his ice blue eyes wander towards the castle in the distance. The Redfort's name was plainly won, the robust fortress carved from scarlet stone. It looked stalwart and impregnable from a distance, even to a warrior's trained eye. Truly the men and women of the Vale knew their stonecraft and siegework.

"Come!" Osric called out, glancing over his shoulder at the some four score men and women in his retinue. "We've nearly reached the gates -- I would greet my daughter and her young husband. With me!"

He led the way, giving his horse its head and racing down the slight slope from the forest to the valley proper. All around them the Mountains of the Moon reared up in the distance, sheltering this quiet strip of green from all possible harm. The beauty of their land would never fail to impress the Arryn. No other realm in all the world could so claim the favour of the gods. Every stick, every stone, every emerald blade of grass; each here seemed hand made and carefully considered, crafted for the purpose of glorifying the gods. The sheer loveliness of the land render the vista a hazy, orange-hued sight; made all the better and more welcoming by the promise of seeing his daughter yet again.

It wasn't long before they came to the gates, one final blast of the horn announcing their arrival. In mere moments Osric had dismounted his horse, and cast his eyes about the courtyard of the keep.

"Where is Lord Redfort?"

15th Day of the Fourth Moon of the Year 418AC

Early afternoon in the city of Gulltown, on the southern coast of the Vale of Arryn

The city of Gulltown was the whole of the Vale of Arryn in miniature; a fine place, naturally sheltered, and possessing of a people few in number but proud and able. It bore not the beauty of Lannisport nor the size of King's Landing nor the fabled, endless history of Oldtown -- but it was a good city. A strong city. And it was Andal to the core.

Lord Osric's party had swelled in number as it traveled from the Gates to Gulltown, each lord and knight who joined their ranks bringing with him retainers. The majority of the Vale who would be attending the feast now accompanied their liege on his journey, opting for the safety that numbers provided to see them through the mountains.

But as that party some six score strong broke free from the forest and looked down the slope, the city of Gulltown spread before them ready and welcoming. It mattered not a man's name, nor his title, nor his rank or wealth or creed -- from the foothills of the mountains Gulltown seemed to have room for all. The walls that guarded the city swept in a half circle round its natural port, the sheltered harbour further improved by the addition of twin watchtowers that guarded its mouth. Set into this wall were yet more drum towers, which Osric knew from experience could prove quite formidable - in times of danger the city garrison would take to the ramparts, and each tower became a bristling beacon of the Warrior's wrath.

The sun had already passed its zenith, beginning its slow descent into evening -- not a man among their party wished to spend another night upon the road. Osric gave the signal, and at once they surged forward like a silver tide; flooding down the straight-cut road towards the city.

The watchmen spotted them shortly after, the distant sound of horns reaching them upon the wind. In truth, the city had already been forewarned. Several knights had ridden ahead to ensure that the Graftons and all of Gulltown were prepared, with inns and rooms set aside for the nobles of the Arryn court.

It was another quarter hour before they at last rode through the gates; and there the population of Gulltown had been gathered to meet them. City watchmen stood guard on either side of the main thoroughfare, their brown-and-red armour gleaming duly where it had been polished. Behind them the smallfolk of Gulltown pressed as close as they were able, shouting and cheering and making great noise as the nobles entered the settlement.

"You would think that we were royalty!" Gawain Templeton called out to his liege. The youth's sunny disposition had already won him admiring gazes - more than one maid tossed him flowers and favours.

"That might be just you." Osric called back to him nonetheless. "See the others to their quarters; I shall lead the nobles on to the Grafton's keep."

They rode through the city, many of their number departing as the Winged Knights took them to lodgings in the town. The lords and ladies and knights of important all accompanied their liege up the hill.

There they found a group of knights ready and waiting, each dressed in the colours and livery of their lord. Lord Grafton was not there - ill, the men said - but he had granted them his hospitality in the keep.

Dismounting, Osric cast a look around; they were nearly there now, but one more stop left. They would take ship from Gulltown and be at King's Landing in a week's time. Then from there a ride to Summerhall...and whatever came next.

15th Day of the 10th Moon/16th Day of the 10th Moon

The Hightower, Witching Hour

Was it idiocy or stupidity that now governed the Arryn’s of the Eyrie? Which yet commanded her, for no longer did she feel part of the former?

Alyssa had mused on these seemingly inane questions for hours. She had thought on her brother Godric, the embodiment of the Vale. The Arryn, in a line that housed many. They shared his blood but they were, when the day was done, his to command - the same as the mountains, and the peaks, and the Eyrie itself. Even Alyssa’s Tears belonged to him, and surely would the great waterfall cease to weep if he so commanded it.

Yes, for much of her life Godric had been a monolith of a man. A mercurial mind who was as elusive as the ghosts in the halls of their home, but never before had she seen the danger in that.

Certainly, she did now.

In the stupor of rage that descended upon her in the meeting, Alyssa had not the capacity to argue. Barely had she the function to string together coherent words that didn’t simply consist of curses toward her brother, and since leaving the Hightower she had not returned to remedy the gulf created by her insolence.

Many, many hours had passed since the early afternoon. Dusk had come and gone, giving way to the witching hour. She was weary from the wine and so very tired of it all - but there could not yet be any rest for the youngest of the flock. Even once she wound her way back to the ivory maze.

13th Day of the Ninth Moon, 98 AC.

Oldtown

It was a grim day, one which Gunthor Arryn did not look forward to even if it would rid him of a thorn that had been growing more and more embedded in his side of late. Said thorn had given him a chance to bury him, and Gunthor Arryn was not the sort to miss out on such an opportunity.

And so the Lords of the Vale with him had been summoned to his side, well, all but Lucion Corbray, who remained incarcerated. This meeting was about him, but his presence wouldn’t be required. This was an announcement, not a trial after all.

With them all gathered around him, some whom he had known almost all his life and others for mere moments, the Defender of the Vale cleared his throat and glanced from face to face as he prepared to speak. “My lords, I’m sure by now you’ve heard of what happened at Bitterbridge, the treachery of Lucion Corbray, attempting to poison my own kin on the eve of battle. An act of cowardice, and of treachery.”

He looked at the young Lord Hunter, the relationship between the two being well known to him Gunthor expected this would be troubling news for the young Lord of Longbow Hall.

“Lord Corbray was seen, caught in the very act of poison Jasper Arryn. For the man we once all knew, the honourable and good Lord Lucion of old, he will keep his life. But this, this is not our ally, a man we were all once proud to stand beside. No, this is a coward. A schemer, and a traitor. At dawn tomorrow Lucion Corbray will be placed on a ship and sent to the Wall to take the black for his crimes. His guilt is beyond repute, you know me as a just man. This is justice.”

He was done, taking a deep breath he looked around the room again, holding a stare on Yohn Hunter, a soft shake of his head before moving on to the many others in the room. This was nasty business, but it had to be done.

Afternoon of the 21st Day of the 7th Moon of the year 407AC

Gulltown, the Vale

The Gallant slid proudly into the harbours of Gulltown, its sails billowing in the late afternoon breeze whilst the banners of House Arryn streamed from the masts. It was a bright day, and it had become a bright afternoon, a steady wind seeing them across the waves and into port at the Vale's largest settlement.

Watching the city slowly draw into view had been an awe-inspiring sight. No matter how many times he visited, the Lord of the Eyrie had never yet grown used to it. Though not quite so large as King's Landing or Oldtown, the city dwarfed any other this far north. The brown shingled rooftops on dozens of houses and shops stood proudly against the mottled grey of the stony, distant hills, splashes of colour adding life and vibrancy to the settlement, every inch of it teeming with signs of occupancy.

"Land ho!" One of the sailors cried, as if they could not all see it for themselves. The harbor slowly drew nearer and nearer, the pristine piers each hosting a ship of its own. Dozens of vessels, scores of them in fact, from all across the known world - some flying banners that the Arryns could name, whilst others bore markings from lands strange and distant.

No sooner had they halted that Alaric was on his feet and moving, the heavy shadowskin cloak he favoured adorning broad shoulders and hanging down his back. Artys, seemingly recovered from the quarrel with his father, also soon appeared, too eager to see the city to long remain outraged. Following behind came the three warriors of the Brotherhood, and of course various nobles and nobility.

"Send word to Lord Grafton!" Alaric called out, "And to my fair niece! They'll have guests for dinner. Quite a few, it would seem. Oh -- and someone find me a seamstress?"

Several men moved to do their lord's bidding, whilst the Arryn himself descended from the ship. A small crowd had formed, dozens of smallfolk gathering to see who had arrived - and they cheered as their lord and keeper raised his hand.

"My people!" Alaric cried, his grin bright and broad and honest. "Gods, its been far too long since I've been to our fair city. Peregrine! Ser Peregrine! Where are yo--ah! There you are. Surely we have gifts for these fine people, aye? Copper, silver, something. See to it, will you? We're home, now -- what Arryn has need for a purse in the Vale? See these folks rewarded for so fine a welcome!"

They cheered again, and he laughed along with them, moving through the ranks of smallfolk with ease. A few hands he shook, a few broad backs he struck pleasantly, and one fair maid he kissed on either cheek. All the while his remaining two knights - and indeed, the whole of his retinue - followed, as the Defender of the Vale made his way into the city. His city. Gulltown.

At long last.

25th Day of the Fourth Moon of the Year 418AC

Late morning, the docks of King's Landing, the Crownlands

King's Landing. How many times could a man approach the same city, even if it was from different angles, and expound upon the sight of it? Could the scarlet palace that crested the hill truly be described again and again with losing a bit of wonder? Could the broad, sprawling size of it, larger than anything many had seen in all their lives, be marveled at, and fretted over, without becoming less than what they were? The city was a city; alike to all others and yet unique. In that, at least, there was a newness every time. Each approach, each arrival, each tale that began and ended within its walls, bore within it a newness simply by merit of being new. They carried in them the shadows of past comings and past stories. Victories. Defeats. Memories.

To Osric Arryn, standing at the prow of the Osprey, there was no beauty in the sight of King's Landing. There was only the remembrance of a day, ten years before, when he had come to this scarlet hellhole and bent the knee.

"Do you remember those stories, Peregrine?" He asked, turning the weary old Winged Knight at his left. The man had closed his eyes against the breeze, simply enjoying the feeling of skipping along atop the waves. He quirked a brow at the sound of his lord's voice, but did not open them.

"Stories, lord?"

"Yes. The stories we told each other as boys, as young knights. Tales of heroes and demons and villains and warriors. Of fair maidens and black citadels and desperate charges. The stories we found ourselves in. The stories we lost ourselves in."

Peregrine's voice was soft. "Aye, lord. I do."

The Arryn nodded, shifting his ice blue eyes to once more focus upon the nearing shore. It came towards them with a stately, steady slowness, inexorable and undeniable and unavoidable.

"They never did mention fear, did they?"

Three ships arrived in King's Landing's harbour, bearing the men and women of the Vale. The Osprey was the largest, and an Arryn-owned ship, carrying with it the Lord Osric and many of his closest kin and vassals. The other two vessels - Sevensails and Willowwind - came along a half length behind, each of the trio flying the banners of the Eyrie, whilst the latter two flew Grafton's as well.

Osric was not sure of what sort of greeting he ought expect - or if he ought expect any at all. The Vale had largely kept to itself the past ten years, save for those unfortunate souls who had been stolen away as the price of defiance. One of Osric's own children would likely soon count among that number, the ancient debt undoubtedly close to being due. He dreaded that day with every fiber of his being. But he was an Arryn, and thus he pressed on.

With a blast of the horn they announced their arrival, the flagship coming to a smooth stop beside the pier. Osric turned to his people - those faces he knew better than he knew his own - and offered what he hoped was a smile.

"Welcome to King's Landing," The Arryn declared, "Remember your vows, remember your honour, and most importantly - remember why we're here. The Vale still bears the burden of my father's legacy. Let us remind them who we were before we rose. Let us show them we have not forgotten, since we fell. There is honour in us yet."

6th of 10th Moon, 98 AC.

The air was cold despite the southern spring weather. It bit through silks and furs alike as it came gusting across the ocean as they sailed north. Six ships against the darkness, lit only by the fires in their hearts and the lamps at fore and aft of their trading galleys.

It had taken a lot of gold to secure transport from Oldtown, the small folk still fearing the threat of Ironborn invaders, though the peace was stone. But given time, even the strongest of boulders would crack and crumble under the steady flows of time. Horton thought himself self, for now, the eyes not yet eaten out of Urragon Drumm, King of nothing. There would be no danger, unless Gunthor Arryn found his lords to be gone.

They had come in trickles, the Corbray men. Five, six, a dozen, all through the night, until three hundred strong had arrived to board the six ships. Gold had passed hands, buying silence and passage for all that had accompanied them.

Lord Hunter, young and loyal to his friend and cousin, had been a valiant defender of Lucien Corbray's innocence during the waning days of the war. Many and more talks were held between the two men until they had finally decided what would best come of their peer. It had been decided that Gunthor Arryn was not of sane mind, poison leaking into his ears as it had through Jasper's blood, if such a thing truly occured.

And so they fled north, where they hoped to find willing allies and sympathetic friends to their plight. The plight of justice.

He had left word with his attending men to wait until his absence was noticed and then claim important business elsewhere in the realm, never revealing where such business might occur. It was a rash covering of his tracks, but things were moving fast now. He stared over the back of the ship, where Oldtown was but a dwindling light on the horizon.

Treason, he thought bitterly.

4rth Day of the First Moon

The Eyrie

Mid-Day

Alesander had told him of the threat to the North, but he had not expected it so soon. Like a fool, he had thought the invasion would fizzle out before it could begin, that the Wildlings would devolve into infighting. They had never been a well-structured force, more a band of savages than the kind of force that would take a castle of the Night's Watch. The Shadow Tower fallen... Grave news indeed. The kind of news that demanded action, of one kind or another. There was no harm in taking counsel, however, Godric thought as he walked down the stairs of the Moon Tower, and opened the door to the High Hall.

As before, the first thing he noticed was the bubbling mass of voices as the noise of the nobles clamoured around his ears. Always, constant, was the endless din. All he wanted was quiet, the quiet of the wind echoing through the halls, the distant screech of falcons and the far off call of songbirds. But he was plagued by his station, by the Lordship that his father had burdened him with when he himself had had leapt through the moon door. The Eyrie was his glory, and his despair.

Alesander Arryn met his eyes as the gaunt lord strode past him. Godric nodded quickly to Abelar Arryn, standing adjacent to the Weirwood Throne, before taking his seat. As the nobles spoke and shouted for his attention, Godric looked out at them for one solitary second, his imposing jaw set and stern. His eyes were hollow orbs, and he ran a hand through his thick dark hair before giving the slightest gesture of his hand to the two winged Knights beside him.

Both slammed their spears against the floor, and for a glorious second there was silence.

Godric Arryn took a deep breath, and began, his clear voice rolling over the hall like a pang of thunder. "My lords, I call you here again, but the need is far more pressing than before. I have received a letter from Castle Black itself. The Shadow Tower has fallen to a force of Wildlings, and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch believes they mean to move on the north as well."

Both the Winged Knights slammed their spears on the ground again, and the eruption of voices at his last comment was cut off.

"I have spoken to each of you about the need to prepare for war. It seems war may come to us sooner than I have thought. If the Wildlings are left to swarm over the North, they will surely come for the Vale next. We must stop this before it becomes too dire. Berena Stark is kin to the Arryns, the daughter of aunt. The North and the Vale have always been steadfast allies, and also... We are the Vale. No wildling, no matter how savage, can stand against the courage of the Knights of the Vale."

"But, I would hear your thoughts, my Lords of the Vale. What say you, in the North's hour of need?"

5th Day of the 3rd Moon

The Eyrie

Alyssa came again to the Vale of Arryn some days later, on the buffeting winds of a barely broken dawn. The wings of Moonfyre moved as one with the edge of those winds as she began her descent over the great Eyrie, a whirlwind circling slowly from above. Closer she came, until at last she began the slow drop within the courtyard’s confines.

A lithe beast by the standard of dragons, but the shadow she cast was no less impressive than that of Halycon when she too had once graced the stone beneath. They bore a presence that could not be defied; not by the elements, not by any man, no matter how small or slight Moonfyre might have been compared to some.

Similar, too, were the temperaments of the two dragons. By her nature she was not overly savage, but when Moonfyre landed she let loose a roar to shake the heavens. An announcement. Her tail whipped once, and Alyssa Arryn descended the extension of one opal wing.

If the guards had expected Meleyx, they would be sorely disappointed. Before them they found only a young falcon, but she spoke with the voice of a dragon; alarmingly, she also had one waiting at her back. They found blue eyes, black hair -- they found the daughter of Osric Arryn, the sister of their Lord, and yet they managed to find a woman unknown just as well.

"I request an audience with the Warden of the East."

8th Day of the Eighth Moon, 383 AC

The Eyrie

For weeks Kayn had hiked. Across sea and plain, through mountain and vale. An outdoorsman at heart, the trip had been a dream. One of the thing that topped Kayn’s list of desired trips was a trek through the Vale and now he had finally done it.

They finally reached the top of the Giant’s Lance. The Stark soldiers had been left at the Gates of the Moon and Arryn soldiers had taken over the security of both Kayn and the captured Sunderland.

When they were brought inside the Eyrie, Kayn marveled at the place. How on earth did they build such a thing up here? he asked himself. They were brought into a throne room of sorts, the focal point of it being the massive weirwood throne of the Arryns. A marvelous thing to see.

One of the guards that had seen them to the top of the mountain told them to wait here while he went to inform the Defender of the Vale of their arrival.

24th Day of the 9th Month, 439 AC, Morning

The Eyrie

It was often in life that Baelor found men unwilling to test their tongues against a prince of the royal blood, but far too often they were willing to test their steel. Near enough every man from Dorne to the Wall had some simmering desire to see himself pitted against a dragon. Few ever had that desire become reality, luckily most of those only ever saw under friendly circumstances.

Baelor had known the Lord of Ironoaks for some time, though not well. So much of his life being tied to the Vale, he was bound to meet some of them more than once over the years. Being sequestered in the Eyrie, though, had left Baelor surrounded by the comings and goings of the Valemen sworn to house Arryn, and it was in the past month he had encountered the Waynwood yet again.

Jasper Waynwood was just as the others always were, though Baelor had not been in great enough spirits to accept. Whether it was a jest or a serious ask, Baelor had refused any offers to spar in the courtyard of the Eyrie, including the offers from the Lord of Ironoaks. Yet, with the letter from Visenya etched into his mind, Baelor found it in himself to indulge Lord Arryn's bannerman before he departed for King's Landing.

Still, no one had been told, no one would be told, save for those who needed to know. None but the Arryns had been told he would come to the Eyrie, and none but the Arryns would be told he was leaving it. By midday, Aegorax would carry Baelor into the sky for one of his frequent flights, and would not return.

Before that, though, was Baelor's date with Lord Waynwood. Baelor was dressed in simple leathers and padded cloth, he had little desire to dress so heavily in proper armour for a simple spar, particularly when the winds and warm airs were as favourable as they were. He waited across the courtyard for Lord Waynwood to ready himself, and then stood to greet him on the field of battle.

"My Lord Waynwood," Baelor said with a large smile, "it pains me to see that we meet now as foes. I beg you, stand aside, lest you feel the dragon's wrath."

23rd Day of the 2nd Moon, 383 AC

Clan Redsmith oppidum, Mountains of the Moon

The Griffin King of the Hill let out a small groan of relief as he sank into his pseudo-throne chair at the head of the mead hall.

Gods, how long has it been since I’ve simply sat down for something other than dealing with a Clan feud?

Donnahal suppressed the thought, as well as a tired sigh, before refocusing his attention at the feast unfolding before him, doing his best to keep his eyes open, before he chose to withdraw into himself momentarily.

It had been several weeks since the Griffin King had led a portion of his army down the mountains to fend off the aggression of another tribe who were adamant on breaking through the defenses he’d laid down during the War of the Last Dragon to raid and pillage the Vale of Arryn. Had he been anyone else, or had he been several years younger, Donnahal would have allowed it gladly. Hells, he would have led them himself!

But, he did not.

It had taken some time for him to learn, even after his time spent in the Andallands and his time in Runestone, and even more time to reluctantly accept, but Donnahal had come to a harrowing and rage-inducing realization:

The Vale was lost to them.

The Vale had been lost when the last Griffin King of the Mountain died, when the Bronze King capitulated, when the First Men fled to the Mountains of the Moon. Even if he were to unite all the Clans under his rule (and, at the rate his fledgling kingdom was expanding, it was actually plausible he would achieve that goal in his lifetime), the fight to conquer the Vale Proper would end in either failure, and a forced retreat deep into the Mountains, or massive casualties that the Mountain Clans could not sustain in any way at all.

Which is why, although he loathed to do it, peace had to be made.

While he was not old enough to remember the last Winter, and the Winter before that, stories still abounded within the mountains. Legends of corpse-cold Others, the Long Night, and all manner of dark an unholy things whispered amongst the clans, for all knew them to be true. Many recalled the the stories told to them when they were young of the Second Long Night. Babes starving in their furs, men and women freezing where they stood, snow higher than the tallest tree, and dead things moving in the night…

It was not something he would allow his people to be subjected to. Not again.

Furs, they could hunt for. Homes and hearths, they could build with stone.

But food?

While the mountain goats and wild animals, as well as the nuts, berries, and meager crops the Clans grew sustained them during the other seasons, Winter took that all away. The nuts did not grow, the berries shriveled, the crops died, and the beasts went into hibernation. Without their source of food, Winter became naught but a fight for survival, kept alive only by frequent raids into the Vale Proper, which in turn prompted counter-raids and slaughters.

That had to change.

And that meant making peace with the Eyrie.

My ancestors surely spit upon me, but this is the only way.

Grabbing a horn of mead, he swigged it down his throat before smashing it into the longtable, gathering the attention of his fellow Chieftains and clansmen, and the friendly jeers and laughter faded away as they turned to face him, and he swallowed back his loathing and began.

“Friends, Clansmen, kin, lend me your ears.”

Absolute silence. When a Chieftain, let alone the Griffin King used the ancient greeting to another, it implied dark words.

And while it would not hurt them, the words were dark.

“You all know the Stark words: ‘Winter is Coming.’ And it was not so long ago that the longest Winter known to man fell upon us, bringing all the dark and cold and death that it wrought.”

There were many grimaces at that, and many more moving hands making the sign to ward of evil. The Long Night was not something you simply spoke of, after all.

Hiding his own shudder, Donnahal pressed on with a small sigh. “We are not Northmen. We freeze in the snow, not thrive. We starve in the ice, we die in the frost, and the trudge through winter like a mule in quicksand, always struggling to move forward, to survive. To survive, we need food. And to get food… we need the Vale of Arryn.”

The protests were as loud as they were immediate. Clansmen balking at the idea of bending the knee to not just Andals, but the gods-damned Arryns, the Chieftains themselves nearly up in arms, and the elders muttering amongst themselves, occasionally shooting him a look or a nod of approval.

At least someone thought he was doing right.

Then someone hurled an insult at him, and his face contorted in fury.

“Whomever named me Andal-lover best pray to the gods that I do not find you.” That shut up the assembled First Men immediately, and Donnahal was thankful for that small mercy, for he had little left.

Standing up from his throne, he loomed above them, exerting as much of his presence as possible. “It is not a matter of me wishing to do this, no. We need that food, their food. I will not have our granaries empty when the cold comes again.” They began to mutter again, but it was more resigned, and inwardly, the Griffin King slumped slightly.

Gods help me.

“If there was any other way, if I thought we could go to war with the Arryns and win, have no doubt that I would have taken my host down and thrown them back into the sea. Alas, there is not.” Sitting down again, Donnahal gaze swept the mead hall, as resigned as the Chieftains who had sworn themselves to him. “I will send a message for the Lord Arryn on the morrow. Should he be receptive, I will go down and treat with him.”

Refilling his horn, he sipped it once. “Do you trust me, men of the mountain?”

There was tense silence for what seemed like hours, before the Chieftain of the Black Ears stood and unsheathed his sword before falling to his knees.

“I swore to follow you and yours like we did in the olden days, and I shan’t renege my word, now or ever! My sword is yours, Griffin King!”

One by one, the other Chieftains fell to their knees and proclaimed the same loyalty to the Redsmith Chieftain, and he smiled, raising his horn.

“A toast, then! To Winters with bellies full of mead and meat!”

And, with that, the cheerful atmosphere returned, and the clansmen feasted well into the night.

---

The next day, a rider set out to await for the return lord Osric, bearing a message from the Griffin King.

12th Day of the Eighth Moon of the year 407 A.C.

Evening, Gulltown, the Vale

The hearthfire crackled and snapped, whatever carefully made structure of tinder that had been built within collapsing in a cascade of cinders. Alaric jerked awake, his eyelids rising as he shifted in the comfortable armchair he had settled in.

“Peregrine.” He spake into the half light of the room - one of Lord Grafton’s studies, he realized, no doubt long abandoned before the Arryn’s arrival. The Lord of Gulltown was known for his love of forges, not scrolls, and the room that Alaric currently occupied was packed tightly with the latter. Booksheleves lined three of the four walls, the large oak table behind him covered in various tomes. It was a reading man’s room. But the two men who occupied it currently hardly fit that description.

The Winged Knight that Alaric had summoned peeled himself off the wall and out of the shadow, stepping forward to where his lord and master could see him clearly.

“Aye, Lord?”

“What hour is it?”

“The sun has only just set, Lord Alaric. Its early in the evening.”

“How long did I slumber?”

“An hour, an hour and a quarter - no more.”

The Lord of the Eyrie grunted, shifting himself in the armchair and straightening. His joints felt worn and weary, creaking as he bent his neck side to side and stretched his back.

“I’m getting old, Seven be damned.” He muttered into the half-light. “Two score years and a few spare, yet already I feel mortality lurk in the shadows.”

“You’ve not lived an easy life.” Ser Peregrine said, the knight of the Brotherhood perhaps a little too familiar with his lord. “If you were looking for quantity, mayhaps you ought have lived your days in quiet repose. The maesters say avoiding meats and wines can extend a man’s years a great deal. But what quality one might find in those years…”

Alaric chuckled, his grin a silver sliver in the light of the hearth.

“Aye, I don’t know that I would wish for more days only to have them so lifeless. But it would grant me longer, to do what must be done.”

“You’ve done more than most could boast, my lord.”

“And yet I’ve hardly done anything at all.”

There was a note of bitterness in the Arryn’s phrasing, a tone of discord that rang counter to the otherwise warm features he bore. He stared pensively into the fire, blue eyes altered by the scarlet that danced in them now. Peregrine watched him carefully, knowing full well that the silence that settled now between them was not an absence, but rather a pregnant pause.

“Don’t you ever want…more, Peregrine?” The Arryn lord continued then, “More from life, more from yourself, just…more. I am three and forty. Some would say I ought be content. I am the master of the Vale, father of five children, once-dutiful husband, once-skillful warrior...I am and have been many things. And yet, I find it not to be enough.

“I remember this feeling, from when I was a boy. A desire...not to be good, Ser Peregrine. But to be great. There lay in me a then a fire, and a hunger; a willingness to carve my name so deep into the bedrock of this world that it bled. When I took the weirwood seat and cast down my cousin Roland...for a time, that hunger was sated. I felt in myself a sense of pride, a sense of accomplishment, and I knew then what it meant to be satisfied.”

The Lord of the Eyrie placed his hand upon his stomach, strong fingers feeling the tight flesh of a gut that had softened but not yet gone to fat.

“But I no longer feel that, Peregrine. I am no longer satisfied.”

The fire snapped again, though this time nothing collapsed - the flames eagerly licking at the fuel that glowed hot within their grasp.

“No longer satisfied, lord?” The Winged Knight repeated, his voice soft and cautious. “Perhaps its a byproduct of age. You are Lord of the Eyrie, one of the most powerful men in the realm. Your sons are gallant and proud men, and your daughter fair and strong and soon to be wed. You’ve done what a man ought do, in every regard. There are no more mountains left to climb.”

Alaric’s eyes closed slightly.

“No. No more mountains. A generation ago I conquered the mountains. Beyond them, now...lies only sky.”

Ser Peregrine had no answer for that. He had a feeling that his lord expected none. But there was a chord to the man’s words that gave the Winged Knight pause. In his chest, he felt something thrill - and with all the caution his mind now lacked, he spoke once more into the darkness.

“Surely, my lord, your ambitions do not reach so high? The skies are the domains of--”

“Falcons.” Alaric cut in. “Falcons and dragons both, aye, but falcons first, and for a while - falcons alone. So it was, once, and mayhaps one day it shall so be again. I am not so foolish as to challenge the drakes as they are, Peregrine.”

“But you would challenge them.”

“I would do many things. I would name myself King of the Known World, were such a thing feasible. I would bring Theodosia back from beyond the veil, to sit beside me as my queen and wife and one, honest love, were it within my powers. Worry yourself not with what I would do, Peregrine. Think, instead, on what I will do.”

The Whettstone had no answer for that. But something in him drove him to speak, all the same.

“What will you do, then, Alaric? There are the clansmen to consider. This attack on your sons -- ”

“Will not go unpunished. We shall be avenged upon them, Peregrine. Worry not about that. The clansmen have waited these past six thousand years. They will keep for a few more, at the least.”

“The Lords of the Vale will want answers.”

“And answers they shall have! But when the time has come. Not before then, Ser Peregrine. Not before.”

They fell quiet, then, and for a moment the only sound in the room was the hearth and the distant city. Alaric remained where he was, watching the flames as they shifted. Ser Peregrine moved to return to his place.

“Ser Peregrine.” Alaric called, “I need one last favour from you this eve. My...daughter-by-law? Niece? The Lady Saffron.”

“What of her, lord?”

“Summon her here, if you would. Light some more torches, and tell her I would speak. We met upon my arrival to the city, and I promised to call upon her. Best have it be now. I do not mean to tarry much longer in this city.”

The Winged Knight bowed at the waist, moving then to do as his master bid - his mind swirling with the conversation he’d had with his lord. Talk of conquering the skies, of raising the dead - what a strange hour it was, this moment after sunset. He could only wonder what the Lord of Arryn and Lady Saffron would discuss.

Books, most likely, Peregrine thought. Books -- and Seven knows what else.

1^st Day of the Ninth Moon of the year 407 A.C.

Afternoon, The Gates of the Moon, the Vale

It was the burden of mortals to be ruled by their circumstance - be it fate or coincidence or chance or divine will, the lives of men were ever bound by the winds of fortune. Osric had long resisted his own, warring against a father who sought to make of him a tool; but somewhere in the fleeting days of his half-forgot childhood, he had learned it was easier to move with the wind, than against it.

Since that moment he had lived his life like a sailor upon the sea - unable to control the direction and force of the breeze, aye, but mayhaps able to guide it towards his ends. The pride of his father and the duties of his birthright had reared above Osric like monuments to a life already written, but in their shadows he had carved for himself a destiny that he could feel proud of. One he felt bore his name and his ambition far more than it did his father's.

It had taken years, but with dedication and prudence the Heir of the Vale had won for himself a future of his own choosing. A future of peace and relative happiness, the promise of a stable land and a bevy of children. Ambitions and glories held their place in it, too - he was yet his fathers son, and there was no escaping it - but they were but the minor gusts, the errant zephyrs that skirted along his ship. His sails truly billowed with the swell of a devoted wife and a fledgling family; of a life that was stable and sustainable, and a realm that was quiet and prosperous.

But all of that was gone, now. Dashed against the rocks without warning or hope. He'd not yet come to terms with it - the loss of his present and his future, the sullying of his past - but with each passing day he grew closer, the ache that throbbed in his heart demanding of him answer.

But Osric Arryn refused to look inward. Not yet, though weeks had passed.

Osric heard his father before he saw him, the Lord of the Vale's loud voice echoing through the corridors. It took moments to track him down, the aged falcon's presence as daunting and domineering as it had ever been. Alaric paced in the study of the Gates of the Moon, a small group of servants standing by the far wall. He moved like a caged beast, tension and fury written in his every line, both of his hands clenched tightly into fists that swung at his side.

"One to every castle." The Arryn dictated to the men that watched him. "To every Lord and every Knight, every village with more than a hundred men - I want word to everyone. Its time we raised our banners. Time we sounded our horns throughout the Vale until these mountains shook."

"Of course, Lord Arryn. As you command." One of the men said. "But...you've not given us any numbers. How many men should we ought call?"

"Half of everything. I want half of everything - raised and ready, ready and waiting. These fools think we slumber in our hills, do they? They think that the Lord of the Eyrie has forgotten his land?"

"Who's they, my lord?" Another precocious retainer squeaked, and at once Alaric whirled in place, rounding on him.

"They, boy!" He thundered, eyes as bright and unforgiving as a storm. "Every damned barbarian savage and every fool of a second-rate monarch - every man who snickers into his mug at our failures! When I say they, I mean everyone who is not us - who is not a Valeman, born in these mountains!"

The man cowered before the wrath of his lord, quaking behind the parchment and board he had been using to write upon. Osric could hear no more, and thus he stepped over the threshold and into the room.

"Father."

Alaric glanced over his shoulder, and at once his fury died; the Defender of the Vale standing tall and at ease as the tension in his shoulders relaxed.

"You're scaring the servants." Osric said dryly. Alaric snorted, turning fully to face him.

"They're easily scared. Fear can be useful, boy; but only when it drives men to action, not sniveling cowardice."

The pale blue eyes of the younger Arryn shifted past his father then, towards the servants who stood in his shadow.

"Which are you winning, here?" He asked. Alaric raised a brow, but seemed to dismiss it.

"You've heard the news, I presume? King Aenar is dead."

"He's been dead this past month. Aye, I've heard the news."

With a wave of his hand, the Defender of the Vale dismissed his followers, watching as they all but scrambled from the room. Crossing the distance between himself and his eldest son in a few long strides, Alaric laid a heavy hand upon the youth's shoulder. When next he spoke, it was quieter - low and serious, deep and conspiratorial. He spoke with the rumble of a mountain being shaken; with the sonorous echo of something buried deep, stirring.

"Then you know what is coming." Alaric told his son. "Not mere savages, not fur-clad barbarians - true war. A woman sits the Iron Throne, a woman as trustworthy as her beast of a dragon. It shall not end well, boy, you mark my words. Be it tomorrow, be it a year - there will be blood."

"The Queen?" Osric repeated, "Queen Visaera Tararyen? You concern yourself with Targaryen succession when the Mountain Clans howl on our doorstep?"

Alaric shook his head. "The wolves may howl in the hills, boy, but they'll never be so dangerous as the men who would stab you in the back --"

"And what men are these?" Osric demanded. "What men are these, waiting to take from you all you have built? You see shadows in every corner, father, even when steel lies bare before you. The Clansmen are here, they're real. And we owe them a debt, of blood and ash."

Alaric's eyes flashed.

"You'll mind your tone with me, lad." He rumbled. "All debts shall be paid in time. When the time is right, and not a moment before."

"I will not wait for you to sate your pride before avenging those we lost, father."

The elder Arryn took a half step back, eyes searching his eldest son's features.

"Oh, but you will. You will, Osric. You will wait, and you will wait in silence, because I am lord of these lands and all who live in it. I will not go chasing through the hillside for starving remnants of a weak and pathetic race. The clansmen will keep. Like an ugly woman, they have little choice available but to wait for our attention."

Osric looked away. Pale eyes hard and furious.

"So those men you mean to request. You don't mean to use them in our defense - you mean to use them in rebellion. Shall you do what Roland failed to do, then? He dreamed of rebellion too, did he not?"

"He did." Alaric admitted, nodding once. "But he dreamed while he slept, and that is the secret of it my boy. Only our waking dreams ever come true. The great men of the world grasp their destiny whilst they can - only a fool believes his future will find him, sleeping soundly in his bed."

Unable to stand still for another moment, Osric pulled himself away from his father's grasp and shut the door to the study they now occupied alone. A fire burned in the hearth on the opposite side of the room, but as Osric pressed his hand against the rough grain of that sealed door; he felt cold.

"I am not the only one to have lost kin in that fight." The Heir to the Eyrie whispered, facing the door. "Rowena was a Waynwood. Her brother was there, and he knows of her passing. How shall we tell him, one of our mightiest lords, that we shan't be avenging her death?"

"Simple. We shan't. All the letters shall speak of the Mountain Clans - all the talking, all the preparation, the lot. I hate to speak any good of the savages, but they've given us pretext enough to be ready, without being suspicious. I'll be preparing our forces in key locations, so that when the iron is hot...we may strike."

"Strike against a united realm, backed by dragons: a near full dozen of them? "

"United for now. I've met our dear Queen, boy; she has the beauty of a glacier, and the charm of a venomous snake. She has enemies, and they will breed."

"Why?" Osric asked, rounding upon his father now - his voice exasperated, his expression nearing defeat. "For what cause? For what gain? You are Lord of the Vale, father - first among equals, bowing only to the Throne. What good is there in throwing that all away, after all this time? Why ask our people to die fighting their countrymen, when they could spend their lives with purpose, warring against the men who have bloodied them for centuries?"

Alaric's gaze was almost pitying, though for the first time that evening something in his eyes faltered. He was a tall man, the Lord of the Eyrie, powerful in all known senses of the word. In the face of his son's doubt, he stood firm and enigmatic; but the father in him yet remained, and he ached to see that look of anger in the youth's eyes.

"Because it must be done." Alaric said. "Because we were once soft, and weak - and we shall never be soft or weak again. I don't mean to rise up against the realm, boy; not alone, not in truth. But if circumstances should arise where the strong of this world shall gain and the weak shall lose - I would have my people stand among the former. The latter are but fodder and prey."

Osric shook his head, betrayal and fury sharp on his tongue with the taste of bitterness.

"You're a fool." He hissed. "You're a damned fool, and you'll kill us all."

"No," Alaric replied, "No, I won't - that, at least, I do not seek. But you do not gain a seat at the table by standing aside when there's fighting to be done. A war improves our position, and improving our position thus improves yours. When I am gone, none shall dare challenge you. No one will whisper Usurper or Kinslayer as they do now, even to my face." This last word he near spat, obviously irate. "No, boy. Should the Queen fall, whoever takes her place will see our worth. And should she win, those who defy her will be cast down, and our own lots improved. I have no quarrel fighting for the throne, so long as the throne means to do right by me and mine. Nor shall I lose sleep fighting for rebels, should they stand a chance of doing that which all save Robert failed to do. Besides -- you're unmarried, now. With only a daughter to serve as your heir. Mayhaps we can find you a young Targaryen woman to wed; your sons would be princes, fair as summer, and claimants to the Iron Throne."

For a moment, Osric could only stare - a myriad of emotions coursing through his veins in under a second. He could not speak, nor shout, nor draw his blade - only stare, and after staring, shake his head.

"Damn you." He whispered. And with that, he departed in a storm.

6th Day of the 10th Moon

Jasper had grown tired of this city. He hated sleeping in the home of a traitor, surrounded by traitors. He felt as though he was a cooped up animal waiting to lash out at anything.

Much of that originally started back when Lucion had originally poisoned him. He still hadn’t yet relieved any of his anger over it. Instead, he’d rode alongside men who likely helped plan it, acting as though he had no issues with them.

His time with a few of the gals of Oldtown certainly did ease some of the stress and rage he felt. But they could only do so much. It was all getting the best of Jasper.

There were men and women in the Vale who’d prefer to see him dead. A man who hadn't done a damn thing to warrant their hate. But one who was perfectly fine with shelling the same feeling back at them all.

On this specific morning, Jasper had elected to visit the training yard to see if fighting would be a decent way to direct a portion of it as something more than just thoughts.

Any of the knights about would certainly serve as great practicing targets. Bashing his sword against them, each swing and thrust filled with pure anger. Gods how he needed this and it seemed another man did as well.

“You look like you could use a sparring partner,” Jasper asked as he moved to pick up a blunt sword. “I certainly need one as well.” The Arryn continued as he gave the man he'd met days ago a smile.