"There are stone steps carved into the mountain," Brynden Tully said, his voice steady as he looked toward the towering peaks ahead. "We'll have to ride mules up."
After more than a decade serving as the Knight of the Bloody Gate, the Vale of Arryn had become as familiar to him as Riverrun itself. Every path, every fortress, every hidden turn in the mountains—he knew them all.
"The steps are too narrow and steep for horses," he continued. "But mules can manage… barely. There are three waycastles along the ascent: Stone, Snow, and Sky. The mules can take us as far as Sky."
Anguy squinted upward, shading his eyes with one hand. The mountains loomed impossibly high, their peaks vanishing into clouds.
"And after that?" he asked.
Jon Snow followed his gaze, his expression thoughtful. "These mountains…" he murmured. "They're unlike anything in the North."
There was a strange familiarity in his tone. His father, Eddard Stark, had once lived in the Vale as a ward of Lord Arryn. In a way, Jon felt as though he was walking through a place tied to his own past—one he had never truly known.
Brynden answered plainly. "After Sky, the path becomes too dangerous—even for mules. From there, we either climb… or take the basket."
"The basket?" Gendry asked.
Brynden nodded. "The Eyrie sits directly above Skycastle, perched atop the Giant's Lance. Supplies are hauled up using six massive winches—chains of iron that pull baskets filled with food, drink, and goods. Sometimes… people ride them as well."
Barristan Selmy frowned slightly.
"We may reach the top," he said quietly, "but not with an army. Sending soldiers up those steps would be suicide."
A siege would be the logical answer—cut off supplies, wait, starve them out.
But Gendry was not a man who preferred waiting.
"You can't catch an eagle without entering its nest," he said calmly.
His eyes were fixed on the distant fortress.
The Eyrie.
He had no intention of sitting idly at the Gate of the Moon. Surprise was his greatest weapon, and he intended to use it.
Their group was small—but formidable.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
Brynden "Blackfish" Tully.
Bronze Yohn Royce.
Jon Snow.
Anguy the archer.
Dacey Mormont.
Ser Donnel.
And himself.
Eight people.
A perfect strike force.
Behind them, their cavalry remained hidden under Ser Boros' command, waiting for the signal to move.
Gendry could feel Dacey's gaze on him from behind—steady, admiring. But he ignored it, focusing instead on the fortress ahead.
"The Gate of the Moon…" he murmured.
Their first obstacle.
Lord Nestor Royce.
Gendry turned slightly. "How skilled is he?"
Brynden gave a dry chuckle.
"In his youth? Quite capable. Now?" He shook his head. "A man who spends years as a steward forgets how to wield a sword."
That was enough.
The Gate of the Moon held fewer than three hundred men—no match for their hidden cavalry. But brute force would ruin everything.
Surprise must be preserved.
Disturb the grass… and the snake would flee.
As they approached, the drawbridge lowered with a heavy clatter. Chains rattled as the portcullis rose, and torch-bearing soldiers stepped forward to guide them in.
Brynden and Ser Donnel led the way across the moat.
The guards looked confused.
The group was… strange.
Men and women. Young and old. Some armored, others cloaked. Faces hidden beneath helmets.
And yet—they moved with purpose.
Inside the courtyard, Lord Nestor Royce awaited them.
He stood surrounded by knights clad in sky-blue cloaks, their breastplates marked with the falcon and crescent of House Arryn.
Nestor himself was a large man, broad-chested but slightly stiff in movement. His bald head gleamed in the torchlight, and his beard—streaked with white—framed a face marked by age and caution.
Behind him stood his son, Ser Elbert Royce, a younger reflection of his father.
"Ser Brynden," Nestor greeted, bowing slightly.
"Lord Nestor," Brynden replied, dismounting. "We've traveled far. If it pleases you, we would rest here for the night."
Nestor grunted.
"You need not be so formal with me. But Lady Lysa has sent word—she wishes to see you immediately. Your companions may stay. You will go up the mountain."
Brynden frowned.
"That's sudden."
"It is her command."
Nestor's gaze shifted, narrowing slightly.
"And these companions… who are they?"
Something about them felt… wrong.
Then—
His eyes caught a familiar sigil.
Hidden, but unmistakable.
"Cousin… Yohn?"
His voice faltered.
Bronze Yohn Royce removed his mask.
Recognition struck like lightning.
Yohn should have been far away.
Not here.
Not like this.
"Guards!" Nestor shouted suddenly, realization dawning.
This was no visit.
This was a strike.
"Ser Brynden!" he demanded. "What is the meaning of this? Lord Yohn has been declared a traitor!"
"Yohn is no traitor," Brynden snapped. "Lysa is."
"The truth of Lord Jon Arryn's death will come to light—and she is at the center of it."
Nestor's hand trembled as he drew his sword.
Behind him, knights moved to do the same.
But they were too slow.
A blur of motion—
Steel flashed.
CRACK.
Nestor's sword shattered.
Gendry stood before him, blade raised.
The second strike stopped just at Nestor's throat.
Perfect control.
Perfect precision.
Nestor froze.
Barristan moved at the same time, disarming Elbert with effortless grace.
"Put down your weapons," he said calmly. "Or the boy will suffer for it."
The courtyard fell into tense silence.
"Barristan Selmy…" one knight whispered.
"The Bold…"
Fear spread quickly.
These were not ordinary men.
These were legends.
"Long live the storm!" Jon shouted, drawing his sword.
Brynden shot him a sharp look. "Keep your voice down, boy."
Anguy raised his bow, arrow aimed steadily.
No one dared move.
Nestor forced a smile.
"This isn't like you, Brynden. Plotting against your own kin…"
But his eyes betrayed him.
He had already seen the truth.
The tall warrior in black armor.
The blue eyes.
The presence like a storm.
"Gendry…" he muttered.
"The usurper…"
Gendry didn't deny it.
He simply watched.
"I have three hundred men," Nestor said stiffly. "You cannot take this castle with eight."
"Perhaps not," Gendry replied calmly. "But your men… are not Lannisters."
His blade gleamed faintly.
"I can kill them. One by one."
Silence.
Then—
A guard broke free, rushing toward the bell tower.
Gendry moved.
Faster than sight.
He didn't draw his blade.
His fist struck.
Once—
Twice—
The man collapsed, gasping, unable to stand.
"I'm not here to slaughter your men," Gendry said quietly. "I came for Lysa."
Nestor exhaled slowly.
"Stand down," he ordered.
Weapons lowered.
The tension eased—but did not vanish.
"Now," Yohn said, stepping forward. "We go up."
Nestor hesitated.
Then nodded.
"I will come with you. I must see the truth with my own eyes."
"And Lady Lysa?" he asked quietly.
"And young Robert?"
"They will be treated justly," Gendry said.
Brynden added, "If our suspicions are correct… the boy may also be in danger."
Nestor's shoulders sagged.
"Then we climb."
He turned to his son.
"Elbert. Stay here."
Then, after a pause—
"For Lord Arryn… we endure."
Gendry watched him.
A flawed man.
But still loyal.
"Choose wisely," he said softly.
Nestor met his gaze.
"I will."
Above them—
The mountain waited.
And at its peak—
The Eyrie.
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