At night in the Eyrie, the winds never rest. The Arryn banner, embroidered with a white crescent moon and a blue falcon, snapped sharply in the gusts.
Atop a high tower on the castle's western side, Andar Royce sat by a cold stone window. The chamber was comfortably furnished, fitting for the heir to Runestone—yet it was still a prison. Outside, the moonlight washed over the rolling gray mountains, their outlines flickering in and out of the swirling sea of clouds.
He had returned to the Vale after the tournament, invited to serve Lady Lysa at the Eyrie. But once his father, Lord Yohn Royce, formed the Lords Declarant, he was swiftly confined. His father's declaration had sent tremors through the Vale, and Andar had become a pawn in the storm, powerless to move on his own.
He worried for his father's safety, for the fate of his house, and mourned the disorder now consuming the Vale. Under Lord Jon Arryn, it had been among the most just and peaceful regions of the Seven Kingdoms. Under Littlefinger, it had fallen into chaos.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A soft knock broke the silence. Andar frowned, surprised. Who could it be at this hour? The knights who guarded him usually shoved his food inside without a word.
He rose and cautiously opened the heavy oak door. Outside stood not a mailed guard, but a young woman. Lean and strong, she wore practical leather armor, thick wool trousers, and a dark cloak over her shoulders.
Mya Stone. The bastard daughter of King Robert Baratheon.
Since the king's shocking decree legitimizing his bastards, her position had become precarious. Once the most skilled guide on the Eyrie's treacherous mountain paths, she had safely led countless guests to the castle above the clouds. Now she too was a prisoner, though her confinement was looser. In Westeros—outside of Dorne—a woman's place in succession was weak by nature. Still, who could truly ignore a legitimized daughter of Baratheon blood?
"Lady Mya?"
Andar blinked in surprise, stepped aside to let her in, and quickly shut the door behind her, cutting off any chance of being seen.
"How did you get up here? Ser Lyn Corbray's men are guarding below."
Mya smirked as she unfastened her cloak, a sly glint in her eyes.
"The guard downstairs? Mychel Redfort. We're... on good terms."
There was weight behind her words. On good terms? That was putting it lightly. She had given Mychel her first time. Mychel Redfort, Ser Lyn Corbray's squire, had once been one of the few bright spots in her grim life. They had traveled the perilous road to the Eyrie together countless times.
She had once dreamed that maybe, one day, the young noble from House Redfort would overlook her bastard birth and marry her. But reality was merciless. The looks and whispers of others had stung her like needles. A bastard. A guide. How could she ever be fit for the Redfort heir?
Then everything changed. When King Robert's decree reached the Eyrie, Mya Stone became Mya Baratheon—a legitimate daughter, acknowledged by the Iron Throne. People began to look at her differently: with reverence, calculation, even envy. Even Mychel's behavior shifted—more attentive, his gaze heavier with meaning she no longer wished to read.
And strangely, once she was no longer that lowborn bastard girl, her once-tender feelings for him froze in the mountain air. She no longer longed for love. What she desired now was simple and absolute.
Freedom.
To escape this cold stone cage and return to the wild mountains and open skies she called home.
"I can get you out of here, Ser Andar."
Mya met Andar Royce's gaze with unwavering confidence. She knew the hidden paths and weak points of The Eyrie's defenses better than anyone.
Andar's heart skipped a beat. Leave? Escape this impregnable sky fortress?
He studied Mya. The confidence on her face seemed genuine.
"How? The Eyrie has only one exit, heavily guarded. The triple fortifications and the Gates of the Moon are layered defenses."
A gleam flashed in Mya's eyes. "Dawn is approaching. Every morning, a mule train carries supplies from The Eyrie down to the Gates of the Moon. We'll blend in. You follow me, stay silent, and do exactly as I say."
Watching her speak with such conviction and certainty, the stagnant waters in Andar's heart stirred into a mighty wave. Freedom. To return to his father's side and fight for his house. The temptation was overwhelming.
Without hesitation, he nodded firmly. "Alright. I'm with you."
Mya moved swiftly, guiding Andar silently down the winding stone steps. They slipped past the main guard posts, using the shadows of the towers and the brief shift change at dawn to reach the stables near the cliff at the rear of the castle.
The air was thick with the smell of dung and hay. A mule train was finishing its final load—empty baskets stuffed with straw. A few bleary-eyed soldiers oversaw the work, muttering complaints about the cold and the steep mountain path.
Mychel Redfort was indeed there.
He had just finished his shift and could use this moment to get Mya and Andar away. Wearing his attendant's leather armor, his face tensed when he saw their figures appear from the shadows, and he hurried toward them.
"Mya! Quick!"
He whispered urgently, "They'll be done loading any moment! You two, hide behind those two hay baskets. I've taken care of the old mule driver—he won't say a word!"
Mya shot him a grateful look and quickly signaled to Andar. The two of them climbed deftly into the baskets, curling up in the musty hay and burying themselves as deep as they could. Mychel tossed loose hay over them, then stacked a few bales on top for cover.
"Hey, Mychel, what's taking you so long? We're leaving!" a gruff soldier barked.
"Coming, coming!" Mychel shouted back, brushing straw from his clothes and forcing a casual grin. "Today's my turn to head down to the village for some good wine—perfect timing to join you!"
With that excuse, he naturally merged into the escort.
The mule train began its descent, slowly crossing the narrow stone bridge carved into the cliff face—barely wide enough for a single rider and a mule. The wind grew fiercer here, howling like ghosts and tearing at everything in its path.
Andar huddled in the icy basket, jolted violently with every step of the mules. Each movement made the basket sway like a swing, creaking under his weight. He could feel the endless drop beneath him. The frigid mountain air seeped through the cracks, biting into his skin and setting his teeth chattering.
Every time the basket tilted, his heart jumped into his throat. His face turned pale as chalk, his fingers clawing desperately at the rough inner wall.
By the Seven Gods, please don't let this basket fall apart.
Never had he felt the terror of The Eyrie's roads so vividly.
Beside him, Mya—raised among the mountains—remained calm and steady.
The long descent, which felt like an eternity, finally ended. When the mule train passed through the Gates of the Moon and entered the forest below, Mychel created a clever diversion. He pretended to spill a sack of grain, drawing the mule drivers' attention.
During the brief confusion as they scrambled to clean up, Mya and Andar slipped silently from their baskets and darted into the woods.
They didn't stop. When their feet finally touched the ground beyond The Eyrie's reach, Andar drew in a deep breath of the free mountain air, feeling as if he had been reborn.
Mya looked toward the distant ridges, her eyes gleaming with the hunger for true freedom.
Without a moment's pause, they set off toward Runestone.