Part 1 - The Defender's View
Ser Lyn Corbray POV
They had given him the gate. A fine post, if not as prestigious as the Bloody Gate. But it was here, at the main gate of Gulltown, that his name would be made. All he had to do was hold. Hold for a fortnight, and the Crown's fleet would arrive, securing his house's favor and his own legacy.
Lyn Corbray. The name carried the weight of centuries. His house was old, its glory faded like the sheen on their ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Lady Forlorn. His forebears had served queens, fought dragons, and shaped the fate of kingdoms. Now, it was his turn. He would prove to his father, to all of them, that a Corbray still had a place in the songs.
"My lord! They are coming!"
Lyn turned from his contemplation of the Arryn host's encampment. "I have eyes," he snapped, his gaze fixed on the movement below. The enemy was advancing, not as a vast, sprawling host, but with a grim, focused purpose. A large, roofed structure—the battering ram—was being pushed forward by a dense group of foot soldiers, while the bulk of the Valeknight cavalry held back, a shimmering sea of steel and color just out of bowshot.
His maester had once droned that an attacker needed three-to-one odds to take a fortified position. Lord Arryn had barely more than that in total, and most of his force was cavalry, useless for scaling walls. Lyn had near six thousand men, strong walls, and the sea at his back. The advantage was his.
"Archers! Loose! Burn that ram!" he commanded.
A volley of fire arrows soared skyward, arcing down to clatter harmlessly against the ram's wet, sloping roof. The flames sputtered and died. The design was clever, he had to admit—more a mobile siege shed than a simple log.
"Cease fire! It's treated. Prepare the boiling oil!" he shouted, his calm beginning to fray. They had to destroy that damn thing before it pounded their defenses into splinters. If the gate fell, the knights of the Vale would pour into the city like a torrent, and all their advantages would vanish in the dust and blood of street fighting.
He watched, a knot tightening in his stomach, as the ram drew closer, protected by a shell of wood and hide. It reached the gate with a terrifying, deliberate slowness. Then it struck.
THOOM.
The impact was not a crack, but a deep, resonant boom that vibrated through the stone beneath his feet. The very air seemed to shake. Dust sifted down from the battlements. One blow. It was far more potent than any ram he had seen.
THOOM.
The second strike was followed by the sound of splintering wood from the other side of the gate. Panic began to ripple through the defenders on the walls. This was not a siege; it was a demolition.
"Everything! Pour everything on them! Destroy it!" Lyn roared, his voice straining over the din. He had miscalculated. They should have dug a ditch, built an outer wall—something. The gate would not hold.
He grabbed the arm of his lieutenant, Ser Halbert. "The gate won't last! You have the wall! I'm taking a sortie to smash that ram to kindling."
Ser Halbert, his face pale, nodded grimly. "The Warrior's blessing, Ser Lyn."
Lyn didn't reply, already moving, his mind racing past the ballads of his ancestors to the brutal, immediate calculus of the battlefield. His pride had been in holding the gate. Now, his only chance for glory—and survival—lay in sallying out to destroy it. He sprinted for the stairs, shouting for his horse and for every household knight he could muster. The songs would not be written about the man who held the gate, but about the man who saved the city. He intended to be that man.
The efficiency of the ram was startling. Despite a hail of arrows, stones, and boiling oil from the walls, the men sheltered within its wooden shell drove it forward relentlessly. The defenders did their duty, but our design and their desperation proved an uneven match. With each thunderous impact, the great gate of Gulltown shuddered, until, with a final, splintering roar, it gave way.
The area before the gate became a slaughterhouse as our forces surged forward to secure the breach, meeting the desperate defenders in a brutal, confined melee. The signal was given, and the knights of the Vale, led by Robert Baratheon, poured into the city like a silver tide.
Lord Marq Grafton himself led a counter-charge, a final, foolish act of bravery. He found Robert Baratheon in the press of the fight. I did not see the blow that landed, only its aftermath. It was not a duel; it was an execution. Robert's warhammer did not simply kill Lord Grafton; it erased him. It was a grim reminder of the force of nature I called a friend.
Part 2 - The First Victory
During the fray, I crossed blades with the Corbray knight from the walls. He fought with the skill of a man defending his legacy, but I disarmed him with a swift twist of my sword, leaving him sprawled in the dust. "Your life is worth more to Lord Arryn than your death," I told him, and had him taken prisoner. A live heir of Heart's Home was a valuable bargaining chip.
With their lord dead and their gate shattered, the defenders' will broke. Gulltown fell.
There was no sacking. Lord Arryn's command was absolute, and his knights, for all their fierceness, were not brigands. The city was taken with a grim professionalism that spoke of Jon Arryn's control.
In the aftermath, Lord Arryn proved his political cunning. He named Gerold Grafton, the late lord's younger brother, as the new Lord of Gulltown. The house was spared utter destruction but would pay a crippling war indemnity in gold and ships. Hostages were taken to ensure future loyalty. The Vale's treasury and navy were now firmly in rebel hands.
A raven arrived with news that Lord Eddard Stark had safely reached White Harbor. A palpable wave of relief swept through the command. That night, a victory feast was held in a commandeered Gulltown manor.
It was there I received a new moniker. "To Ser Julius Harlane!" Robert boomed, raising a flagon. "The Gatebreaker!"
The hall echoed with the toast. "The Gatebreaker!" The title was blunt and accurate, if a bit theatrical for my taste. I used the occasion for a more meaningful purpose, knighting my five remaining subordinates—Hale, Rick, Alfy, Claw, and Morty—before the assembled lords. They had earned their spurs a dozen times over in the mountains and at the gate.
Later, as I sampled the fare, the Corbray knight I'd captured approached. "Lord Arryn requests your counsel, Ser Julius," he said, his tone respectful. "And... thank you. For the gate."
I found Jon Arryn and Robert deep in discussion. Robert's impatience was a physical force, straining against Lord Arryn's measured calm.
"Ah, the Gatebreaker!" Robert roared as I approached, clapping me on the shoulder. "Now we can plan our next move! I leave for the Stormlands on the morrow. You and your men are with me."
Lord Arryn nodded. "The Vale navy must stay to protect our shores. You will have to bypass the royal fleet. It will be a dangerous crossing."
The plan was set. We would risk the narrow sea to rally the Stormlands. As the feast wore on and the wine flowed, Robert retired with a pair of laughing serving girls. The hall descended into drunken revelry. When several women approached me with familiar intent, I gently but firmly waved them away. "My thanks, but I must keep a clear head," I said. In a conquered city, surrounded by potential enemies, losing oneself to wine and comfort was a luxury a commander could not afford. The war had only just begun, and the most perilous journey lay ahead.