Runestone, the ancient stronghold of House Royce.
The great hall's walls were built from massive gray granite blocks—rough, heavy, and enduring. In the center stood a vast long table, crowded with men and women of rank.
At the head sat the Lord of Runestone himself, Yohn Royce. Broad-shouldered and imposing, his salt-and-pepper hair and thick beard were neatly trimmed as he surveyed every face in attendance.
On either side of the table sat the core members of the Lords Declarant—Lady Waynwood of Ironoaks, Lord Hunter of Longbow Hall, and several other influential lords of the Vale. The atmosphere was solemn and tense.
Yet the attention of the hall was not on Lord Yohn, but on the uninvited guest standing before the table.
He was tall—taller even than Yohn Royce by half a head—dressed in a finely tailored deep-blue velvet coat with a richly adorned longsword at his hip. His golden hair was perfectly combed, and his piercing blue eyes gleamed with the shrewdness of a seasoned trader.
Isembard Arryn, head of House Arryn of Gulltown.
The Gulltown Arryns were a wealthy cadet branch of the Eyrie's ruling family. Though not the lords of Gulltown themselves, they owned a powerful merchant fleet and vast holdings in the city, their fortune rivaling that of any noble house in the Vale. Yet to the traditional lords—those who prided themselves on ancient bloodlines and knightly virtue—the Gulltown Arryns were viewed as little more than newly rich merchants, lacking the true spirit of nobility.
Lord Yohn frowned deeply. "Lord Arryn, did I hear correctly—you wish to join us? To align yourself with the Lords Declarant?"
House Arryn of Gulltown had long stayed distant from the Vale's political struggles, choosing instead to focus on trade and wealth. For them to suddenly take a stance now could not be without ulterior motive.
Isembard Arryn straightened his back, his voice ringing with righteous fervor. "Yes, Lord Royce. For the honor of House Arryn, and for the future of the Vale itself, I—Isembard Arryn of Gulltown—shall not stand idle!"
He paused, his gaze sweeping the hall before fixing firmly on Yohn Royce. "The bloodline of House Arryn of the Eyrie is broken. That is a fact none can deny. Robert Arryn, that frail, sickly boy—he is not the trueborn son of Lord Jon Arryn! He is the bastard whelp of that whore Lysa Tully and that conniving worm, Littlefinger!"
The lords in the hall exchanged uneasy looks.
Rumors had long circulated, but to hear such a direct accusation, and from another member of House Arryn, struck with an entirely different force.
In their minds, they could not help but compare the stern, square-jawed visage of Lord Jon Arryn with the pale, timid boy they called Robert—and the sharp, calculating features of Littlefinger.
Details once ignored now seemed glaring. The boy's hair color, the shape of his eyes, that fearful, shrinking manner...
Yes—he did resemble Littlefinger far more.
Seeing the flicker of doubt cross their faces, Isembard's heart leapt with triumph. He pressed on passionately.
"My lords, though I hail from the Gulltown branch, the same Arryn blood runs through my veins. I cannot stand by while the glory of our forebears is defiled by that pair of vermin! I will not allow the inheritance of the Eyrie to be stolen by a bastard!
Lord Gerold Grafton of Gulltown may cower behind his smallholding, wavering between sides—but he does not speak for Gulltown, nor for House Arryn!
I, Isembard Arryn, hereby declare that my family and I will stand firmly with the Lords Declarant—with you, Lord Royce! We will commit all our strength to purge the filth that has tainted the Vale!"
The nobles around the long table exchanged looks once again.
Lady Waynwood set down her goblet, her tone measured. "Lord Arryn's resolve is admirable. But when you say 'all your strength,' what exactly do you mean? House Arryn of Gulltown's power lies primarily in trade, does it not?"
Isembard's lips curled in satisfaction. "My lady, wealth is sometimes the sharpest weapon of all. I have already recruited two thousand sellswords in Gulltown—veteran fighters, well-armed and well-paid!"
"At Lord Royce's command, they can march at any moment to join the Alliance's forces—becoming the sharpest sword in our hands!"
"Two thousand sellswords?!"
Lord Hunter couldn't help but exclaim, his voice laced with surprise.
It was indeed a formidable force. Lord Royce's third son, Waymar Royce, had only recently returned from the Disputed Lands across the Narrow Sea, bringing with him three thousand Vale soldiers captured in battle—already a significant boost to the Alliance's strength.
Now, with the armies of the six great houses gathered, their combined force numbered nearly ten thousand. Add these two thousand sellswords... and the siege of the Eyrie no longer seemed an unreachable goal.
Yet within Lord Yohn Royce's mind, the warning bells rang louder than ever.
The Arryns of Gulltown, though nominally a cadet branch of House Arryn, had never ruled the town itself—that honor belonged to House Grafton. Through shrewd trade and advantageous marriages with wealthy merchants, they had quietly accumulated staggering wealth, growing in influence under a cloak of modesty.
And now, with Isembard Arryn so readily offering two thousand mercenaries, his ambition could no longer be concealed.
He was not doing this for "the honor of House Arryn."
What was it he truly wanted? The Eyrie itself? The title of Warden of the Vale?
If Robert Arryn was not truly Jon Arryn's blood, and with Harrold Hardyng lost to the Narrow Sea years ago, then who would the rule of the Eyrie fall to?
The answer was obvious.
This merchant lord sought to buy his way into power with gold.
"Lord Isembard..."
Yohn Royce's voice was low and steady. "Your support is invaluable to the Lords Declarant, and I speak for the Alliance in offering my gratitude. However, the Eyrie is the ancient seat of House Arryn. Having an army from a branch of that same house take part in its siege would be too sensitive. It could easily cause misunderstanding among the Vale's other lords—or worse, provoke Lady Lysa and Littlefinger into rash and desperate acts."
He did not say what all present knew he was thinking—that his son Andar's safety hung in the balance.
Isembard Arryn's smile stiffened for a moment. But when he met the sharp, unyielding look in Lord Yohn's eyes, he forced a gracious expression back onto his face.
"Lord Royce has considered all things wisely. My men will remain camped near Gulltown for now, awaiting your command. Once you clear the way, House Arryn will devote its full strength to restoring order to the Vale—and to reclaiming the honor of our name."
"Very well."
Lord Yohn nodded and said no more.
...
Three days later, Lord Yohn Royce rode at the head of his host astride a black warhorse.
Behind him, the banners of House Waynwood, House Hunter, and the other allied houses snapped proudly in the mountain winds.
A vast army of nearly ten thousand men wound its way out of Runestone, marching in formation toward the Eyrie.
Unbeknownst to them, at that very same moment, three weary but swift mountain horses raced across the rocky paths toward Runestone's side gate.
Their riders—Mychel Redfort, Mya Stone, and Andar Royce—arrived dust-covered and exhausted, just as the gatekeepers were closing the heavy doors.
...
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