"Prince Gendry, my lords—we should rest briefly, then make our ascent to the Eyrie tonight," Baron Nestor Royce said in a measured, cooperative tone.
His words brought a sense of temporary calm.
The tension among the gathered knights and nobles eased, and the atmosphere grew more harmonious. The sky-blue cloaks of House Arryn fluttered gently in the mountain breeze, their color both elegant and somber.
Gendry observed them quietly.
Blue… a melancholic color, he thought.
This was not a grand army or an official procession—merely an uninvited delegation, climbing toward one of the most dangerous castles in Westeros.
Their purpose was simple on the surface.
To reason with Lysa Arryn.
But Gendry knew better.
This was not diplomacy.
This was a special operation.
A decapitation strike.
And the difficulty was extraordinary.
The journey had already tested them to their limits.
They had passed through the Bloody Gate, traversed treacherous mountain paths, and endured a relentless climb that shifted from horseback riding to steep ascents on foot.
Even hardened warriors found it exhausting.
And among them were older men, whose strength was no longer at its peak.
Yet—
Gendry remained confident.
Once they reached the Eyrie, the situation would shift in their favor.
The Eyrie was small.
Unlike other great castles of the Seven Kingdoms, it could house no more than five hundred men. In reality, far fewer were stationed there.
Even the Gate of the Moon below held less than three hundred soldiers.
Inside the Eyrie—
Many were merely servants.
Defenseless.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Ser Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—said solemnly.
"This is truly a family tragedy."
Bronze Yohn Royce nodded.
"Who could have seen the poison hidden behind sweetness? We were all deceived."
Nestor remained silent for a moment.
Then, inwardly, he reflected.
Lord Jon trusted me. I understood that.
But Lady Lysa… she never did.
She had always rejected his counsel.
Dismissed his efforts.
At times, he had wondered whether he himself had failed.
But now—
He realized the truth.
Lysa had never intended to trust him.
She had her own plans.
Plans that involved giving the Gate of the Moon to Petyr Baelish—or worse, to their illegitimate child.
The thought made Nestor's lips tighten.
For the first time—
He felt a flicker of satisfaction at the idea of Lysa being cast out of the Eyrie.
"And that singer she favors…" Ser Albar Royce spoke angrily.
"The one Lady Catelyn brought—he compared us to pigs!"
His voice rose with indignation.
"He sang a song about two pigs living at the foot of the mountain, surviving on scraps left by a falcon!"
"Is that not an insult?"
"When I confronted him, he merely laughed and said, 'Ser, it's only a song about pigs.'"
Nestor nodded grimly.
"That is how he behaves."
"A coward," another knight added. "Hiding behind Lady Lysa's favor."
"She dressed him like a lord—golden armbands, a moonstone belt…"
"And now even Lord Jon's favorite falcon is to be given to him," another voice chimed in.
"A gift from King Robert himself…"
Gendry finally spoke.
"These actions are… unacceptable."
His voice was calm, but firm.
"Lord Jon Arryn was a man of honor."
"We cannot allow his legacy to be defiled."
His words resonated with the group.
The dissatisfaction among the Vale lords was clear.
They resented Lysa's arrogance.
Her neglect of Jon Arryn's memory.
And above all—
Her association with Littlefinger.
Night fell.
The plan was set.
"It is not a full moon," Brynden remarked. "Climbing at night will be dangerous."
"It will," Nestor admitted. "But we have experienced guides."
He glanced toward the courtyard.
After a brief meal of roasted meat and baked onions, the group prepared to depart.
The warmth of food brought fleeting comfort.
But the climb ahead loomed large.
Gendry rested briefly, his weapons placed within reach.
Jon Snow remained below, overseeing preparations and contingencies.
When he awoke—
It was time.
"This is Mia Stone," Nestor announced in the courtyard.
"She will guide us."
A young woman stepped forward.
Seventeen, perhaps eighteen.
Tall and strong.
Short black hair framed her face.
She wore a leather riding jacket over light chainmail.
Her posture was confident.
"My lords," she said with a graceful bow, "the mules know the way."
Her voice carried both strength and warmth.
Gendry studied her.
Mia Stone.
A bastard of the Vale.
Like Snow in the North.
Like Flowers in the Reach.
Each region had its name.
But Gendry knew more.
She was—
His sister.
The daughter of King Robert.
Though she did not yet know it.
"You've done this before?" Gendry asked.
"Hundreds of times," Mia replied with a grin.
"I know this path better than anyone."
She mounted her mule.
"The moon and stars will guide us."
"No torches?"
"You wouldn't see anything with them," she laughed.
"I have owl's eyes."
The ascent began.
The forest swallowed them first.
Dark branches formed a canopy overhead, muting the starlight.
But the mules moved steadily.
Unwavering.
The first stage passed quickly.
At the first fortress, they changed mounts.
Then continued.
Higher.
Steeper.
Colder.
At Skywatch, the wind howled like a living beast.
It clawed at their cloaks.
Cut at their faces.
Yet still—
They climbed.
The higher they went, the harsher the environment became.
Trees disappeared.
Stone replaced earth.
The air grew thin.
"This place…" Gendry muttered.
"Does living here shorten one's life?"
He couldn't help but wonder.
House Arryn's long history—
And its many early deaths.
Could it be the altitude?
The final stretch was the most dangerous.
A narrow stone path.
Barely three feet wide.
With endless voids on either side.
Even seasoned warriors felt fear.
They dismounted.
Led their mules carefully.
Step by step.
One mistake—
Would mean death.
At last—
They reached the final gate.
Dawn was breaking.
The sky glowed pale gold.
Ahead—
The Eyrie.
Perched like a crown upon the mountain.
They ascended the final distance using the winch.
One by one.
Like cargo.
Until—
They stood within the castle.
Ser Vardis Egen greeted them.
At first—
With courtesy.
Then—
With suspicion.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.
Gendry stepped forward.
"I wish to see Lady Lysa."
Vardis's eyes narrowed.
"You are not her guests."
"Ser Barristan is a traitor. Lord Yohn is a rebel."
"And you—"
He paused.
Recognition dawned.
"Gendry."
"I am no traitor," Gendry said calmly.
"Lysa Arryn is the traitor."
"She poisoned Jon Arryn."
Gasps filled the hall.
"You lie!" Vardis snapped.
Blackfish stepped forward.
"No one lies about treason."
"Jon was healthy."
"And then he died."
Tension filled the air.
Finally—
Vardis relented.
"Very well."
"But if you lie…"
"You will be thrown from the Eyrie."
They ascended the spiral stairs.
The castle was eerily quiet.
White stone halls.
Empty echoes.
High as glory.
High as isolation.
"The Lady is on the balcony," Vardis said.
His tone was grim.
They entered.
Lysa Arryn stood among nobles and knights.
Dressed in cream velvet.
Adorned with jade and moonstones.
Her expression shifted the moment she saw them.
"What is the meaning of this, Uncle?"
Her voice was sharp.
"You bring strangers here—without permission?"
"Traitors, bastards, enemies of the crown—"
Her gaze fell on Gendry.
Cold.
Suspicious.
Dangerous.
And thus—
The confrontation began.
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