In the Maiden's Tower, the easternmost tower of the white The Eyrie, several of the Vale's most important figures had gathered.
Bronze Yohn Royce.
Lord Nestor Royce.
Ser Vardis Egen.
Maester Colemon.
Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard.
Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.
And at the center of them all stood Gendry.
Outside, the mountain winds howled against the stone walls. Inside, the room was tense with purpose.
The Maiden's Tower offered one of the finest views in all the Vale. Mountains, forests, rivers, and open fields stretched endlessly below. Yet none of the men present had gathered to admire the scenery.
They had come to discuss war.
The greatest councils rarely required crowds. Real power belonged to a few decisive voices, and all eyes in the room rested on Gendry as if stars circled a rising sun.
Ser Barristan stood nearby as his sworn protector. Though many privately doubted whether even the famed knight could keep pace with the "storm" that was Gendry, duty remained duty.
Standing close behind were Gendry's companions—Jon Snow, Anguy, Dacey Mormont, and Lothor Brune.
Maester Colemon stepped forward first.
"My prince, the ravens are prepared."
Every raven in the Eyrie's rookery had been gathered and readied. For months, more ravens had arrived than departed. Riverrun and King's Landing had repeatedly requested troops from the Vale, yet the mountain lords had remained still.
"Excellent," Gendry replied. "You must focus on two matters: the ravens, and Lord Robert's health. How fares young Robin?"
Colemon folded his hands.
"He has improved greatly. The effects of too much sweetsleep are fading, and the child has become healthier since finding companions to play with. As you instructed, we can gradually move him to The Gates of the Moon."
He hesitated.
"But the frailty he was born with cannot be fully cured."
Gendry nodded calmly.
"Then let nature do what medicine cannot. Sunlight, warmth, laughter, and ordinary life may heal what herbs cannot."
Everyone understood. They would do all they could for Sweetrobin, but the gods alone knew whether he would grow strong.
Lord Nestor then cleared his throat.
"Your Highness… Harold Hardyng cannot remain with House Waynwood forever. A future knight raised only among women becomes soft. We already see enough weakness in young Robin."
Bronze Yohn nodded grimly.
Harold—known mockingly by some as "Harry the Heir"—was handsome, proud, and reckless. He had already fathered a bastard on a maid and carried a questionable reputation in Gulltown.
Ser Vardis added, "If the Vale is to one day follow him, he should learn discipline now. Let him serve Prince Gendry."
Bronze Yohn frowned.
"Lady Anya Waynwood will not like losing him."
Gendry raised a hand, ending the matter.
"We will discuss Harold later."
Then he turned toward the wall.
"Bring the map."
Maester Colemon unrolled a large map of Westeros and pinned it open. Gendry stepped forward and drew his sword halfway, using the scabbard to point.
"The war now turns on four great strongholds."
He tapped each in order.
Harrenhal
King's Landing
Dragonstone
Storm's End
"At present, the Lannisters hold the Westerlands, much of the Crownlands, and the corridor through the Riverlands."
Bronze Yohn spoke confidently.
"Riverrun is already in friendly hands. If we gather our forces and repeat the victory of the Trident, House Lannister is finished."
Gendry shook his head.
"No. Tywin Lannister is not Prince Rhaegar."
"If he sees defeat coming, he will retreat west and abandon the Crownlands rather than lose everything."
Ser Vardis frowned.
"Tywin would flee?"
Brynden Blackfish answered before Gendry could.
"He would. The Riverlands burn, and King's Landing starves. If he is wise, he leaves before he is trapped."
Gendry nodded.
"Exactly."
Then he pointed to the map again.
"We will not defeat him with one army."
"We will do it with six."
The room stirred.
"Six?" Nestor asked.
"Yes. Six armies, moving from different directions."
He pointed north.
"The first is the Young Wolf's host—the Northern army joined with the Riverlords. They cut Tywin's western supply lines and reclaim their lands."
Robb Stark's army was bloodied but dangerous.
"The second," Gendry continued, "is a new force forming in the North."
He glanced at Jon Snow.
"Roose Bolton is selecting fierce young wolves and hard men for winter war. The North must preserve its strength. A long winter is coming."
The Vale lords exchanged uneasy looks. Even they knew the terror of a northern winter.
"The third army is the Vale."
Bronze Yohn straightened proudly.
"The knights of the Vale stand ready."
"Good," Gendry said. "Too many cannot pass the Bloody Gate quickly. They must sail from Gulltown and land near the Crownlands."
"The fourth army is from Crackclaw Point."
Some looked confused.
"They need not attack castles. Let them burn grain fields, raid roads, and choke the food routes to King's Landing."
Even Ser Barristan's expression hardened. It was a ruthless strategy—but an effective one.
"The fifth army is my uncle, Stannis Baratheon."
Barristan looked surprised.
"Lord Stannis and King Robert were long estranged."
Gendry smiled faintly.
"All the more reason I must write to him myself."
As long as Stannis had not crowned himself openly, there was still room to sway him.
"I do not need him to storm the city," Gendry said. "Only to besiege it."
Nestor looked puzzled.
"Why not take King's Landing directly?"
Gendry turned toward Ser Barristan.
"What did the Mad King love most?"
Barristan answered instantly.
"Wildfire."
The room fell silent.
Bronze Yohn's face darkened. Every lord there remembered stories of nobles burned alive beneath Aerys Targaryen's madness.
Gendry nodded.
"There are still large stores hidden beneath King's Landing. Worse, production has increased."
That revelation changed everything.
"If we assault the city recklessly," Gendry continued, "we may win the walls and lose tens of thousands."
Blackfish grunted.
"Then better to starve it."
"Exactly."
King's Landing was already unstable. Hunger, fear, and riots would weaken it more effectively than ladders and siege towers.
"The sixth army," Bronze Yohn asked eagerly, "which will it be?"
Gendry tapped the Reach.
"Highgarden."
Some nodded immediately.
"Lord Mace Tyrell commands enormous strength. If he wants glory, now is his final chance."
"And Dorne?" asked Ser Vardis.
"Dorne has smaller numbers and other tasks."
Jon Snow then spoke.
"What of the Iron Islands? Theon is with us. Balon Greyjoy might strike the Westerlands."
Gendry laughed quietly.
"Balon Greyjoy is a madman. He rebelled once, lost sons, and learned nothing."
He shook his head.
"I will not trust war plans to madness."
"If he moves sensibly, good. If not, I will answer him with blood and fire."
No one argued.
Then Gendry looked at Maester Colemon.
"You will receive six sealed letters."
Colemon bowed.
"It shall be done."
The room felt charged now. The campaign was no longer theory—it had begun.
Yet Gendry's face remained grave.
"Do not celebrate too soon."
The lords looked at him.
"This war is larger than the Lannisters."
He pointed east across the Narrow Sea.
"Lys. Volantis. Braavos."
Then he pointed north.
"And something worse."
"Beyond the Wall, reports speak of wights."
Jon Snow straightened immediately.
"The Wall?"
He remembered old stories—White Walkers, dead things moving, giant spiders in the dark.
Dacey Mormont nodded.
"My uncle wrote of strange events as well."
The room, so focused on southern politics, suddenly felt colder.
Gendry handed Colemon several letters.
"Send them now."
The maester hurried away. Soon the ravens took flight into the pale sky—toward Riverrun, Dragonstone, Highgarden, Crackclaw Point, and beyond.
War was in motion.
Gendry then turned to Jon.
"Go say farewell to Lady Sansa Stark. After that, you return with me to Myr."
"A new war begins."
Jon bowed.
"Yes, Your Highness."
As Jon departed, another figure appeared in the doorway.
Harold Hardyng.
He knelt stiffly.
"Prince Gendry, I ask to become your attendant."
Gendry studied him.
"My standards are harsh."
He pointed to Anguy.
"The finest archer in the realm."
Then to Jon's empty place.
"A swordsman of rare talent."
Then to Lothor.
"My right hand."
Then to Dacey.
"A warrior many men fear."
Harold swallowed, but did not retreat.
"That is why I ask."
"I have seen the gap between us."
"If I am to earn honor, I must follow greatness."
Several lords smiled. Perhaps the young heir was not such a fool after all.
Before anyone could answer, Jon returned.
Beside him walked Sansa Stark.
She wore a white velvet gown embroidered with a silver direwolf. Pearls shimmered across the fabric, and her auburn hair glowed in the light.
"Lady Sansa," Gendry said politely.
She curtsied.
"Prince Gendry. My brother says you ride for war again."
"Yes."
She lowered her eyes shyly.
"Then I pray the gods grant victory to you, Lord Lothor, and all your companions."
Gendry inclined his head.
"You are kind, my lady."
Behind him, Harold's expression darkened.
The girl he hoped to charm looked only at the storm.
As ravens from the Eyrie soared into the sky, other ravens flew from King's Landing as well.
Far away, Tyrion Lannister sat with a throbbing face—freshly slapped by Cersei Lannister.
The city had rioted.
Sansa Stark had vanished.
Food supplies were threatened.
Everything was collapsing.
"The Vale…" Tyrion whispered fearfully.
If Sansa had escaped there—
Then Gendry had outplayed them all.
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