The morning mists of the Vale clung to the mountains like silver gauze. The ravens of House Ravenshade took flight before dawn, their wings black as midnight ink, bearing messages that would change the balance of power within the Vale — and, perhaps, the realm itself.
Alderic stood at the highest terrace of Ravenshade Keep, overlooking the vast stretch of the mountain valleys. His cloak billowed softly in the wind — dark gray, bordered with silver thread in the likeness of a raven in flight. The sigil of his house shimmered faintly in the pale dawn.
Below, his retinue gathered — twenty loyal bannermen, each handpicked from families bound to his bloodline for generations. Beside him stood Maester Sebas, hands folded, his calm expression masking pride and unease in equal measure.
The journey to the Eyrie lay ahead, but Alderic's thoughts lingered on the shadows of what he had already done.
Two nights earlier, under the cover of the crescent moon, Alderic had infiltrated the Eyrie in secret — not as a lord, but as a shadow. The ancient mountain stronghold was silent save for the wind and the distant cry of eagles.
Lady Lysa Arryn's chamber was guarded by fear, not men. Her servants whispered that she had grown paranoid since her husband's death — haunted by whispers of guilt and unseen eyes.
When Alderic entered her chamber, she startled awake, her eyes wide, fever-bright, and accusing.
"You!" she hissed, voice trembling. "the black raven of witchcraft! The Faith will strike you down!"
Alderic did not flinch. "The Faith judges the guilty, my lady. Tell me… what judgment did you render upon Lord Arryn when you gave him poison for his wine?"
Lysa froze, trembling. "I—I did nothing! It was for my son! Petyr said—"
Her words faltered as Alderic raised his hand. The faint blue shimmer of his magic flickered in his eyes — restrained, silent, but undeniable.
Lysa's face turned pale. "Petyr… Petyr said it was mercy! He said—"
"You speak his name as though it absolves you," Alderic whispered. "You've become his puppet. And puppets… must sometimes be stilled."
Her voice faltered as Alderic raised his hand. A faint azure glow shimmered from his palm — his magic quiet and precise.
"You have lived too long in the shadow of deceit," he said gently. "Sleep now, and let the Vale awaken without your madness."
A soft hum filled the air, and Lysa collapsed into her bed, eyes fluttering shut. The enchantment took hold, casting her into a deep, deathless sleep.
By morning, the Eyrie was in uproar. Word spread swiftly — Lady Lysa Arryn had fallen into a mysterious illness, unable to rise from her bed. The realm mourned, but none questioned. For such tragedies were all too common in Westeros.
That same night in King's Landing, the old Grand Maester sat slumped at his desk, candlelight trembling against the wrinkled folds of his face.
"Five days…" he muttered. "Five days until the wolf comes south. The wretched king will drink, the lioness will cause trouble, and the realm will rot all the same."
His hand trembled as he lifted his quill — and froze.
The candle flickered. The air turned still.
A whisper of movement behind him — silent, precise.
He opened his mouth, but a hand pressed against it, and steel found his ribs. His quill fell, blotting the parchment black.
No words escaped him — only a quiet gasp. Then nothing.
By dawn, the citadel bells tolled. Pycelle was found dead at his desk, the maesters declaring peacefully, "He passed in his sleep as natural death of old age."
But in the shadows of the Red Keep, something unseen smiled.
Two days later, the Vale's great banners converged upon the Eyrie.
Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone arrived first, broad as an oak and armored in runic bronze that gleamed with ancient authority. With him came the proud banners of House Waynwood, the steadfast Redforts, the calculating Belmores, and the ambitious Templetons.
Alderic entered the high council chamber quietly, flanked by Sebas and his sworn knights. The lords turned as he approached — some with respect, others with cautious curiosity.
Royce spoke first. "Lord Ravenshade. It has been long since your house has graced the Eyrie's council."
Alderic bowed slightly. "The shadows have their duties, Lord Royce. But even shadows answer the Vale's call."
The lords of the Vale knew his name — but few among them truly grasped what it meant.
House Ravenshade was no great power in name, no marcher dynasty that ruled through fear. Yet within the Vale, its legacy ran deep — older than some of the great Houses that still held their banners high.
Centuries ago, when the realm was about to plunge apart into civil war, the Vale teetered on the brink of division.
It was Lord Alaric Ravenshade, Alderic's ancestor, who had ended that crisis. Alaric brokered peace among the Vale's quarrelling lords, preventing a civil war that might have consumed the mountains. For his wisdom, the Eyrie had granted Ravenshade the eternal honor of neutrality — the Shadow Seat, keeper of secrets and balance within the Vale.
Generations later, House Ravenshade had married into the blood of dragonriders — the last of the Targaryen-descended brides of the Vale. It was said that their union left a trace of claim for dragon heritage.
Even now, their name inspired loyalty as enduring as the Stark wolves in the North. Ravenshade men were known for their faithfulness, their oaths kept even beyond death, and their tradition of serving as mediators between houses rather than warmongers. For centuries, not a single Vale lord had drawn blade against them.
And Alderic — young as he was — bore all the weight of that legacy.
At only seventeen, he had broken Jaime Lannister's record to become the youngest knight in Westeros. His feats during his travels across the continent — slaying corsairs, exposing slavers, and defeating a sellsword champion of Lys — had made him a quiet legend among those who followed whispers rather than bards.
He returned home not as a wanderer, but as a mystery — a boy lord whose calm gaze could unnerve even seasoned men.
Thus, when Alderic entered the council that day, his presence alone commanded silence.
The Council of the Vale
Royce's voice echoed through the chamber. "The matter is simple. The boy, Robin Arryn, is frail. The Vale cannot wait for him to grow. He must be raised strong, among knights, not coddled in the Eyrie."
"The boy is the heir," Waynwood objected softly. "Would you take him from his mother's care?"
Royce snorted. "His mother lies half-dead in her bed. Her mind was unfit even when she lived."
A murmur rippled across the lords. Alderic listened in silence, hands clasped behind his back. Then, when all had spoken, his voice cut through the noise — calm, low, commanding.
"Lord Royce is right. The Vale needs a leader, not a boy in waiting. Let Robin learn to stand — among those who would make him a man."
Royce nodded in approval. "Then it's settled. The boy will come to Runestone."
But as they turned to the next matter — the question of the Lord Protector — the air grew heavy again.
Royce's name was on every tongue. His age, his honor, his power — it was all but certain.
Until someone said softly, "What of Ravenshade?,he was knighted by Lord Jon Arryn himself "
The voice came from Lady Waynwood. "In all our histories, none have served the Vale with more loyalty. Their blood has never turned traitor, nor spilled Vale blood."
The chamber stilled. Belmore rose next. "Aye. The Vale stands because they once refused to take sides when dragons burned the realm. Even now, none in this room can deny the peace their name commands."
Royce frowned but said nothing.
Then Templeton spoke. "And he — Alderic — is the youngest knight in Westeros. The people speak of him already. The realm needs symbols, my lords. What greater symbol than a house that has never betrayed us, led by a man untainted by the wars of our fathers?"
Royce exhaled slowly. His sharp eyes met Alderic's. "What say you, boy?"
Even Royce hesitated. He looked at Alderic, thoughtful. "Perhaps… perhaps there is wisdom in youth after all."
Before Alderic could protest, the vote was cast. Unanimous.
Every lord in the chamber bowed their head and declared:
"Alderic Ravenshade, by right of blood and deed, is Lord Protector of the Vale."
Alderic rose, his expression unreadable. "My lords," he said, his voice steady, "your faith honors me — but this decision must rest with the King. Until his word comes, I cannot accept such a title."
A ripple of murmurs spread across the chamber. Royce frowned but inclined his head. "A rare humility, my lord. The realm could use more of it."
Alderic only smiled faintly. In truth, he wanted no crown, no chains of governance. His mind was already set — once this matter was settled, he would journey east, to find his aunt in Essos and trace the fate of the last Targaryens.
Yet for now, he played the part required of him — the calm, wise heir of Ravenshade, a shadow amid the storm.