The Bloody Gate rose like a jagged crown from the stone spine of the Mountains of the Moon, its pale towers catching the afternoon light. The banners of House Arryn stirred above the battlements—a sky-blue falcon soaring against snowy white. The sight was familiar, yet today it did little to ease the hollow weight in Artys' chest.
Word of the skirmish had traveled faster than his column. As Artys and his men rode beneath the shadow of the arching wall, the garrison stood assembled in ranks. Men-at-arms in falcon cloaks, knights in shining mail, and squires with helms tucked under their arms—all watched the young lord who had slain a dozen attackers with steel and bare hands.
"The Fighting Falcon," murmured one soldier.
"Aye, the lad cut them down like wheat," another replied, half in disbelief, half in awe.
Artys did not meet their eyes. Ser Harrick's blood still stained his brigandine, dark and stubborn. His arm was bound, though the wound beneath had nearly closed. Pain did not trouble him as much as the hollow ache in his chest.
Brynden Tully waited in the inner yard, mounted on a lean grey courser. Cloaked in black and red, the black fish of his sigil gleaming at his shoulder, he was a grizzled veteran of countless battles. His hair was more grey than black, and though his frame was lean with age, his strength was evident. His eyes—sharp, keen, and assessing—softened only
…softened only a fraction when they fell upon Artys.
"Who enters the Bloody Gate?" a voice boomed.
Artys nudged Zeta forward. "'Tis I—Artys Arryn, son of Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, and Hand to the King."
Brynden lifted his visor from the battlements and gestured for them to enter.
"You gave us a scare, boy," he said, voice rough but not unkind. "Your grandsire and uncle will sleep easier knowing you've not been carried off by clansmen."
"They were not clansmen, uncle," Artys replied softly.
Brynden's brow rose as he noted the bodies lashed across spare horses, the Tyroshi crossbows among the spoils, and his gaze lingered on the body of Ser Harrick, draped in Arryn blue.
"I see," he said quietly.
He did not press further before the men or the gate. Instead, he gave brisk orders to the garrison: see that the wounded were tended, the dead prepared for transport to the Gates of the Moon.
"To the men who fell," Brynden told the gate captain, "send word to their kin in the Vale. Their names will be spoken in the High Hall and recorded in the ledgers of honor."
When all was set in motion, he turned back to Artys. "You'll ride with me the rest of the way to the Gates of the Moon. Your men can follow at their own pace. You and I have words to share."
Artys nodded, weary but obedient. Shadrich, Robar, and the rest watched him go with a mixture of pride and unease.
They rode side by side along the narrow mountain pass. The air was thinner, cooler with each turn. The path wound between jagged stone and pine, the world falling away to the east.
For a long while, neither spoke. Brynden let the silence stretch, like one might coax a skittish horse.
At last, he said, "Ser Harrick rode with you since you were what—two? The one with the scar across his jaw?"
Artys only nodded, throat tight.
"I knew him," Brynden went on. "He fostered with the Redforts for a year in his youth. Stout man. Loyal. The sort who'd put himself between a boy and a blade without thinking."
Artys kept his eyes on the road, the clink of tack and soft thud of hooves filling the space between them.
"You blame yourself," Brynden said, not as a question.
Artys' jaw tightened. "I should have seen the attack coming. I was—careless."
Brynden snorted. "Careless boys don't kill a dozen sellswords and live to tell of it."
"It was my fault he died."
"Aye," Brynden said simply. "And your fighting spared the rest of your retinue."
but the Blackfish only shrugged.
"You think you're the first lordling to feel guilty for the deaths of their sworn men. This won't be the last time it happens either. You are a lord when you lead armies you will be fighting knowing full well the men marching behind you may die and their blood will be on your hands . You must accept it if you are to be lord ".
They rode on, a hawk wheeling above the ridge ahead, and far below, the distant rush of a river carried on the wind.
"You've the look of Jon about the brow," Brynden said after a while. "He always carried the weight of duties and hurts as though they were his own. You'd best learn not to drown in it."
"I'm not drowning," Artys muttered.
"No? Then why do you look like you've swallowed a stone?"
Artys had no answer.
They rounded a bend, and in the distance, the white towers of the Gates of the Moon came into view—half castle, half memory, gleaming in the waning light.
Brynden slowed his horse to match Artys' pace. His tone had softened. "There'll be time to hunt the men who sent those blades. Time to mourn the one who stopped them. But not today. Today, you ride home with your head high, and let the Vale see you unbroken. We have a wedding to attend."
Artys swallowed, then nodded stiffly. "Yes, Uncle."
Brynden grunted in approval. "Good. And once we're through those gates, you and I will speak again—properly, without eager ears listening in."
By the time they rode beneath the pale walls of the Gates of the Moon, torches along the battlements were lit. Men in Arryn livery lined the courtyard, standing straight-backed and courteous. Word of the "Fighting Falcon" had clearly preceded him.
Lord Nestor Royce stood waiting, broad-shouldered and solemn in bronze-etched armor. At his side, his daughter Myranda observed keenly. She was short, richly curved, her dark hair braided with Myrish silver, eyes gleaming with the mischief of someone who enjoyed testing bold men.
Nestor dipped his head. "My lord Artys. The Vale is glad to see you safe. We've had word of the ambush. You did your House honor."
Artys inclined his head. "Your kindness is appreciated, Lord Nestor. I regret we bring death at our heels."
Myranda stepped forward with a practiced smile and curtsied. "You slain three times as many as you have lost my lord , it seems. They're calling you the Fighting Falcon already. A dozen men killed at your hand? Fine fodder for the singers."
Artys met her eyes politely but without invitation. "I did what honor demanded, my lady. I am not in the mood for merriment i am afraid although I look forward to the wedding; I hope the preparations have not wearied you."
She tilted her head, amused. "They have, my lord. A cup of wine later should ease my pain—perhaps you would honor me by joining and sharing the tale of your valor."
Artys kept his composure. "A cup of wine will have to wait. I have duties to attend to and men to bury ."
Her smile thinned fractionally, though she hid it well, curtsying gracefully and stepping back. Brynden's mouth twitched in quiet satisfaction.
Nestor gestured toward the steps. "Your men will be tended, and your fallen prepared with honor. Rooms are ready for you and Ser Robar."
As the grooms moved to take the horses, Artys' eyes caught movement near the well.
A tall young woman in travel leathers, dusty from the road, turned when addressed. Artys saw: Mya Stone—long-legged, nearly as tall as he was, athletic in build, her hair short and wind-tangled. Her eyes were bright, clear blue. Her breasts were full beneath her jerkin but modestly covered.
She bowed respectfully. "I am Mya Stone, my lord. I tend to the mules for the journey up to the Eyrie. I'll see to your horses; the men said you rode long and hard."
Artys inclined his head. "You have my thanks." He studied her briefly, She looks more like Robert than any of his True born children he thought . A pity she could have been a princess .
Artys bathed and changed into a black silk doublet with silver trim, a cloak of sky blue pinned with a silver falcon brooch, eyes of sapphire catching the torchlight.
He thought on the wedding—the pretext for gathering the Vale, the tourney that would follow. Lord Nestor Royce, though steward of a cadet branch, was an able and loyal man, and Artys knew this would be a chance to cement ties with future bannermen.
As he sought out the Blackfish, Myranda Royce approached with her light, teasing smile. "A chamber has been prepared overlooking the valley," she said. "With a brazier already lit. I'd not have the heir of the Eyrie chilled on his first night among us."
"That is thoughtful," Artys replied. "My men will see me settled."
Her lips curved in amusement, and he offered a polite nod. "I thank you for your hospitality, my lady."
Ser Brynden joined him, and together they walked along the battlements discussing the ambush.
"This is very troubling," Brynden said, brow knit. "I dare not trust a raven with such tidings. I will have to tell your father myself when I leave for King's Landing in a moon's turn."
"That would be for the best," Artys replied. After a long conversation Artys returned to his room .
The room was warm, the last light of day spilling through the narrow window. Artys removed his cloak, gloves, and boots, noting the soft glow of the brazier. Myranda Royce stood near the bed, her posture confident, the folds of her white silk gown clinging to her curves, hinting at the figure beneath.
"Lost, my lady?" Artys asked, his voice steady though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.
Myranda laughed, low and deliberate, the sound teasing and unguarded. "I find the company of the future Lord of the Eyrie most... distracting," she said, her gaze lingering just a moment too long. "I am to be wed, yes, but the man I marry is more concerned with coin and lands than the finer pleasures of life. It would be cruel to waste experience, would it not?"
Artys felt a tug of conflict, recalling his training and the duty of his station. He did not answer immediately.
"You need not fear, my lord," she added softly, stepping closer, letting the silk brush against him. "I am no innocent girl; your honor is safe. Only... indulge my curiosity for one evening."