One could only conclude that Lord Grafton was a fool, or a tragically ambitious one. By declaring for the Mad King, he had chosen the losing side of this war before the first real blow was struck. Perhaps he dreamed that with the Crown's support, the other Valelords would flock to his banner, seeing him as a new Lord Paramount. He was wrong.
Lord Jon Arryn had moved with a speed that belied his years. Instead of a slow, gathering host, he had summoned only his mounted knights—seven thousand of the Vale's finest, a hammer to smash a nascent rebellion before it could truly form.
Our camp sprawled across the green hills a few miles from Gulltown. The air was thick with the smell of horse, smoke, and tension. The banners of Houses Royce, Redfort, Belmore, Waxley, Melcolm, and Waynwood flew alongside the falcon of Arryn. The other lords were watching, waiting to see if the falcon could pluck the gull from its nest.
Inside Lord Arryn's command tent, the air was even thicker with argument. I stood near the rear, my arms crossed, listening as the lords debated.
"We must starve them out!" declared Lord Horton Redfort, his face flushed. "A direct assault on those walls is madness."
"And how long would that take, my lord?" countered Lord Melcolm, his tone weary. "Gulltown has its fleet. They can resupply by sea indefinitely. Meanwhile, Stark and Baratheon await our aid. Every day we sit here is a day the King strengthens his position."
"Lord Melcolm speaks true," rumbled Lord Yohn Royce, his bronze armor seeming to absorb the tent's lamplight. "But Lord Waxley is also correct. My scouts report near six thousand defenders behind strong walls. A thousand of those are Braavosi sellswords, half of them crossbowmen. They will bleed us white on the ramparts. Do we even have the ladders for such an assault?"
It was then that Robert Baratheon's voice cut through the debate like a warhorn. "Enough! All the planning in the world won't win this war! They have numbers on walls, aye, but we have the knights of the Vale! Let them shit their silks when they see our banners! We don't need to climb every wall—we just need to break down their front door." He turned, a fierce grin on his face. "Lord Morton has the key. Show them, man."
Morton, standing beside me, straightened his shoulders. I gave him a slight, encouraging nod. "My lords," he began, his voice gaining confidence. "The battering ram and the siege ladders you requested will arrive by afternoon, escorted by five hundred of my men who have recent battle experience in the mountains."
Lord Jon Arryn, who had been listening silently, finally spoke. "Excellent work, Lord Morton. This is a great service to the Vale." He then turned his pale, weary eyes to me. "Ser Julius. The design for this ram is yours, I am told. And Lord Robert speaks highly of your... practical experience in warfare."
"I have seen my share of conflicts, my lord," I replied neutrally.
"Then I have a task for you," Arryn said. "You will command the assault on the main gate. Protect the ram, break it through, and secure the entrance. Once the gate is down, our knights will pour through. It is the most dangerous position on the field, and I am entrusting it to you."
I met his gaze. It was not a request. This was a test, a way for the Lord of the Vale to measure a foreign knight he did not fully trust. He was offering me a place of high honor and high mortality. To refuse would be to show cowardice and lose all the goodwill I had earned. To accept was to lead men to almost certain death.
But I saw the logic in the chaos. The ram was not just a log; it was a roofed structure on wheels, designed to protect the men within from arrows and boiling oil. My task was not just to push, but to command, to be the anvil against which the defenders would waste their strength.
"I will see it done, Lord Arryn," I said, my voice flat and certain.
A grim satisfaction settled in my gut. This was the ugly truth of war I remembered. Lords made plans, and good men died for them. Hundreds would fall today for a gate, for a city, for the pride of a falcon and the ambition of a gull. I felt a pang for the lives that would be spent, but the part of me forged in a thousand battles welcomed the clarity of it. My duty was clear: break the gate, win the day, and survive. The path to honor, it seemed, was paved with shattered timber and the blood of the willing.