The valley unfolded before Gendry like a painting brought to life.
It stretched endlessly toward the mist-shrouded east, a land both serene and majestic. Towering mountains encircled it on all sides like a natural fortress, their jagged peaks piercing the sky. Within this protective embrace lay fertile black soil, crisscrossed by wide, gentle rivers that shimmered under the sunlight. Hundreds of lakes—large and small—dotted the landscape, reflecting the heavens like scattered mirrors.
The fields were rich and abundant.
Golden waves of barley swayed in the wind, while wheat and corn stood tall and heavy with grain. Even the famed produce of the Reach seemed inferior in comparison—pumpkins here grew larger, fruits sweeter, and the land itself seemed blessed.
As Gendry and his companions passed through the final mountain pass at the western edge, the terrain began to slope downward. The winding road led toward the valley floor, nearly two miles below.
Here, the valley narrowed.
The mountains to the north loomed so close that Gendry felt as though he could reach out and touch their rugged faces. Their shadows stretched across the land, adding a sense of quiet grandeur.
Among them stood one peak above all others.
"The Giant's Lance," Bronze Yohn Royce said, following Gendry's gaze.
The mountain towered into the heavens, its summit vanishing into cold, drifting mist. At nearly three and a half miles high, it dominated the entire region, a silent sentinel watching over the Vale.
Yohn pointed again.
"And that… is Alyssa's Tears."
A shimmering silver ribbon cascaded down the western slope of the Giant's Lance. Even from this distance, the waterfall was clearly visible, glistening in the sunlight like a stream of liquid light.
Gendry narrowed his eyes slightly.
So that was it.
The legendary waterfall.
And somewhere near it—
The Eyrie.
The seat of House Arryn.
He had heard many stories of that place.
It was said that the Eyrie stood so high that clouds drifted beneath its walls. Seven slender towers, white as fresh snow, rose like blades into the sky. When sunlight struck them just right, they gleamed with a brilliance that could be seen from miles away.
It was there that Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark had once been fostered under Jon Arryn, forging a bond that would shape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.
A bond that, in the end, had brought both men tragedy.
Gendry exhaled softly.
"The Vale of Arryn truly is a remarkable place," he said. "Beauty… and strength in equal measure."
Yohn gave a faint nod.
Every land had its pride, its defining feature.
For the Vale—
It was this.
A land protected by mountains, blessed with fertile plains, and crowned by the towering Giant's Lance.
Ser Barristan stepped forward slightly, his voice calm and measured.
"They say Alyssa's Tears was formed after Alyssa Arryn's death."
Gendry glanced at him.
Barristan continued.
"Alyssa Arryn was from an ancient branch of House Arryn. According to legend, she watched her husband, her brothers, and her children slaughtered before her eyes… yet she did not shed a single tear."
A brief silence followed.
"The gods punished her," Barristan said quietly. "After her death, her tears flowed endlessly, forming the waterfall we see today."
Gendry looked again at the silver cascade.
A beautiful sight.
Born from tragedy.
Nearby, Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—remained silent, his expression troubled.
Alyssa Arryn.
A woman who could not cry.
He clenched his jaw slightly.
He had never imagined that his own niece, Lysa, would become someone just as cold… perhaps even worse. Rumors of her poisoning her own husband had spread far and wide.
If true—
The gods would not look kindly upon her.
"The Bloody Gate has already been secured," Brynden said at last, his voice firm.
"We should reach the base of the mountain by nightfall. But climbing it… that will take another day."
Gendry nodded.
"I only hope our guests arrive safely."
The real challenge would begin at the Gate of the Moon.
From there—
They would ascend to the Eyrie itself.
"It is our honor to host them," Ser Donnel Waynwood said, trying to maintain a composed and courteous tone.
"Ravens have already been sent—to the Eyrie and to Runestone."
Yohn added confidently, "My son will come… discreetly. And once matters are settled, more lords will follow."
Donnel had already done his part.
A raven had been sent ahead.
By the time Lysa Arryn received word of Brynden's arrival, everything would already be in motion.
Gendry fell into thought.
This land…
Peaceful. Beautiful.
But how long would it remain so?
In terms of strength, the Vale of Arryn ranked among the top regions of the Seven Kingdoms—likely third, after the Westerlands and the Reach.
Its defenses were nearly unmatched.
The Mountains of the Moon formed a natural barrier, while the Bloody Gate served as an impenetrable choke point. Any invading force would be crushed long before reaching the valley.
And within—
Lay prosperity.
Fertile lands, abundant water, and thriving settlements.
In an age without dragons, the Vale was virtually untouchable.
A kingdom unto itself.
But such security came at a cost.
The people of the Vale had grown… conservative.
Traditional.
Proud.
And perhaps—
Too comfortable.
House Arryn itself had long suffered from a dwindling lineage. Often, its lords were left as orphans or widows, the main line breaking repeatedly over the centuries.
This had only made them more cautious.
More inward-looking.
"Beyond these mountains… how much land does the Vale truly have?" Gendry asked.
"Not much," Yohn replied.
"It is one of the smaller regions in the Seven Kingdoms—larger than the Stormlands and Dorne, perhaps—but not by much."
Brynden added, "But its population is considerable. And its ports are valuable."
"Seagull Town lies close to Braavos. Trade across the Narrow Sea has always been strong."
Gendry nodded slowly.
That explained much.
The Vale's wealth did not come solely from its land—
But from trade.
He looked ahead at the winding road.
The Vale was… divided.
There were traditional nobles—proud but often poor.
And there were merchants—wealthy, but lacking status.
And between them—
A gap.
A tension.
Littlefinger had built his influence within that gap.
He spoke for the merchants.
For the minor lords.
For those who sought power through gold rather than blood.
But removing Littlefinger alone…
Would not be enough.
The entire faction behind him would need to be dealt with.
As they descended further, the soldiers took a brief rest.
The Bloody Gate troops, now under Brynden's control, greeted him warmly. He returned their greetings with equal sincerity—he had once commanded them, after all.
Soon, the cavalry remounted.
Fresh horses were brought out—sturdy beasts accustomed to the harsh mountain paths.
Gendry observed them carefully.
The terrain here was treacherous.
Without experienced riders—
An army could easily break apart.
As they continued, Gendry rode alongside Brynden, Yohn, Barristan, and the others.
The path was steep and narrow, forcing their mounts to move cautiously.
Gendry's thoughts grew heavier.
Not everyone in the Vale would welcome him.
To many—
He was an outsider.
And worse—
A disruptor.
The Vale had gained little from Robert's reign.
Some even viewed his decisions as insults—especially the appointment of Jaime Lannister to a position long held by House Arryn.
And now—
Gendry had come.
Not as a guest.
But as a catalyst.
"This must be handled carefully," he thought.
Force would only create resistance.
Persuasion—
That would be the key.
Except for Lysa.
With her…
There might be no choice.
"I should have known…" Brynden muttered softly. "Lysa has changed."
"And Catelyn… her children…"
He sighed deeply.
"None of them were prepared for this world."
"The war began even without Tyrion being brought to the Eyrie," Gendry said.
"Tywin Lannister had been planning this for a long time."
Brynden nodded grimly.
"Lysa… enjoys power. She wants to rule until her son comes of age."
He paused.
"I thought her foolish."
"But now… I fear she has lost her mind."
"There are several people we must watch closely," Yohn said.
"My cousin Nestor Royce at the Gate of the Moon."
"Lady Lysa."
"The young Lord Robert."
"And Lyn Corbray."
He added with a frown, "And… Lysa's many suitors."
Gendry rested a hand on his weapon.
"The sword has crossed the mountains."
"Now… it must be drawn."
"I will try to persuade my cousin," Yohn said.
"If he still listens to me."
"And if he doesn't," Barristan said calmly, "we will rely on steel."
"The most dangerous one… is Lyn Corbray," Brynden warned.
"He is the Vale's finest swordsman."
Anguy snorted.
"Let him try."
"The stag's hammer doesn't spare anyone."
"And the boy?" Gendry asked.
Brynden hesitated.
"…He is only six."
"Sickly. Fragile."
"He cries if his doll is taken away."
Gendry frowned.
"That weak…?"
Brynden nodded slowly.
"He is Jon Arryn's trueborn son."
"But many doubt…"
"Whether he is fit to rule."
Gendry's eyes darkened slightly.
"…I suspect he has been poisoned."
The wind carried his words away.
And ahead—
The path to the Eyrie awaited.
A place of beauty.
Of power.
And perhaps—
Of inevitable conflict.
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