The morning air in the Vale was crisp and clear, the kind that seemed to wash away the weight of age—if only for a moment.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood quietly in the courtyard, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Despite being well into his sixties, his posture remained straight, his gaze sharp. Age had taken many things from him, but not his discipline… and certainly not his skill.
In truth, he needed less sleep now than he had in his youth.
There was a time when he would rest for ten hours and still stumble half-awake onto the training grounds. Now, five hours was more than enough. His body had grown accustomed to hardship—refined by decades of war and service.
Today, he felt particularly light.
Even after the journey… I can still wield a blade, he thought.
Behind him, Ser Brynden Tully—known far and wide as the Blackfish—let out a quiet scoff.
"The garden is probably another fool's gathering," he said dryly.
Ser Vardis Egen, standing nearby, frowned.
"Exactly as expected," he muttered. "Lord Jon's wealth has been squandered on that singer… and now these men flock here like crows."
His tone darkened further.
"Some are already backing out. But others… still cling to their ambitions."
Barristan said nothing, but he understood.
Lysa Arryn's court had become a spectacle.
Most noblewomen would at least pretend to mourn their husbands. They would wear black, speak softly, and observe propriety.
But Lysa…
She had abandoned all restraint.
Not far away, Ser Nestor Royce stood with a grim expression.
He was one of the many suitors—and one of the first to be rejected.
Humiliated.
That wretched woman, he thought bitterly. Calling me a bumpkin…
If not for the power she held as Lady of the Vale, he would never have endured such insult.
But today…
Today, things were different.
He glanced toward the approaching group—five figures who carried themselves like drawn swords.
Let's see how this ends, he thought.
Above, on the balcony, laughter echoed.
Platters of food and drink had been laid out in abundance—thick wedges of cheese, baskets overflowing with blackberries, and silver goblets filled with sweet wine infused with orange.
It was less a court… and more a festival.
A mockery.
Lysa Arryn sat at the center of it all, her cheeks flushed, her laughter loud and unrestrained.
Earl Hunter had just finished telling a joke, and she laughed heartily before plucking a blackberry from the tip of Ser Lyn Corbray's dagger.
Among the many suitors gathered, Hunter and Corbray stood out as her favorites.
At least… on the surface.
"Pathetic," Gendry muttered under his breath as he looked up at the scene.
To him, Lysa was the embodiment of foolishness.
Years of hardship—miscarriages, grief, and obsession—had twisted her. Though younger than her sister Catelyn, she looked far older. Her body had grown heavy, her features bloated, her beauty long faded.
And yet…
She clung to power with desperate intensity.
The atmosphere shifted the moment the five men entered the Eyrie.
Laughter faltered.
Music died.
Eyes turned.
"Get out!" Lysa snapped immediately, her voice shrill. "The Eyrie does not welcome you!"
But the five men did not move.
They stood like pillars.
Gendry stood at the front, clad in black scale armor, a golden surcoat draped over his frame. His cloak bore the sigil of stag and dragon intertwined—a symbol of rebirth.
Beside him was Anguy, lightly armored, a Myr crossbow slung across his back.
Barristan the Bold stood tall in gleaming white armor, his cloak as pale as milk.
Bronze Yohn Royce wore rune-engraved armor that shimmered faintly in the light.
And the Blackfish—grey-clad, sharp-eyed—stood ready, his sigil glinting on his shoulder.
Barristan stepped forward.
"Such words should be spoken by a herald," he said calmly, his voice carrying across the hall. "But I will speak them nonetheless."
He fixed his gaze on Lysa.
"You stand before His Grace, Gendry Baratheon—King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
Silence fell.
The title struck like thunder.
"Gendry…" someone whispered.
Across the Vale, the name carried weight.
A butcher.
A conqueror.
The King of Two Cities.
Even the Kingslayer himself had been defeated by this man.
And now…
He stood here.
In the Eyrie.
Lysa's face twisted with fury.
"Robert?" she shrieked. "What right did Robert ever have over the Vale?!"
Her voice rose higher.
"He drank, hunted, and left Jon to die from overwork! And now his bastard comes here to command me?!"
Her words echoed wildly.
But Gendry did not flinch.
Instead, he took a step forward.
"My Lady," he said evenly, "whatever faults the late king had… they do not justify what you have done."
His voice hardened.
"Poisoning your husband."
The hall froze.
"And attempting to poison your own son."
The words struck like a blade.
Lysa staggered back.
"Uncle! Vardis! Nestor!" she cried desperately. "Have you all turned traitor?!"
But no one moved.
"We are no traitors," Gendry replied coldly.
"There is nothing more tragic than a wife who murders her husband."
His gaze sharpened.
"Lord Arryn trusted you."
"And you betrayed him."
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"And Littlefinger," he added.
Lysa's composure shattered.
"You lie!" she screamed. "I would never—"
"Wouldn't you?" Gendry interrupted.
His voice was calm—but merciless.
He began recounting the truth.
Jon Arryn's investigation.
The royal bloodline.
The visits to brothels.
The plan to send Robin to Dragonstone.
Each detail struck like a hammer.
"You feared losing control," Gendry said. "So you listened to Littlefinger."
"Tears of Lys… a colorless poison."
Gasps filled the hall.
"You poisoned your husband," he concluded.
Lysa trembled.
Her denial came weakly.
"No… that's not true…"
But even she didn't believe it anymore.
"Fetch Maester Colemon," Gendry ordered.
Ser Vardis nodded immediately.
"Yes."
That single word shifted everything.
The knights of the Vale were beginning to choose sides.
"Kill them!" Lysa screamed suddenly. "Kill them all!"
She grabbed a sword, her hands shaking.
Then—
She opened a falcon's cage.
The bird took flight.
Guest right… broken.
The meaning was clear.
But still—
No one moved.
The knights hesitated.
The guards faltered.
Even her loyal men looked uncertain.
Because deep down…
They knew.
If what Gendry said was true—
Then Lysa was not their lady.
She was a murderer.
"Enough," the Blackfish said coldly.
"You shame House Tully… and House Arryn."
Tears streamed down Lysa's face.
"Is there no one… to defend me?"
For a moment—
Silence.
Then—
A figure stepped forward.
Ser Lyn Corbray.
His silver armor gleamed as he descended, Lady Forlorn in hand. The blade's ruby pommel glowed like a drop of blood.
"Finally," Lysa said with relief.
But Lyn ignored her.
"I'm not here for you," he said bluntly.
"I'm here for him."
He pointed his sword at Gendry.
"I've always wanted to test myself."
"Against a king."
The duel began.
Steel met steel.
Lyn was fast—precise—deadly.
But Gendry…
Was overwhelming.
Each strike was like a falling mountain.
Each blow carried crushing force.
The clash echoed through the hall like thunder.
The knights watched in awe.
This was no mere duel.
It was art.
War.
Two masters dancing on the edge of death.
But slowly—
Lyn began to falter.
Gendry was stronger.
Faster.
Relentless.
Finally—
With a powerful strike—
Lyn dropped to one knee.
His sword slipped from his hand.
"…I yield," he said, breathing heavily.
He laughed weakly.
"I believe now… the Kingslayer's defeat was no fluke."
He looked up.
"You are the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms."
Then—
He threw Lady Forlorn at Gendry's feet.
"I yield to you… my king."
"Rise," Gendry said simply.
Then Lyn turned to the gathered lords.
"Our king stands before us!"
His voice rang out.
"And he is worthy!"
He grinned.
"And tell me—if Littlefinger dies…"
"…do we still owe him our debts?"
Laughter rippled through the hall.
The tension broke.
And in that moment—
The balance of the Vale shifted.
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