The knight at the head of the charge was young and fierce, his armor blazing beneath the crimson light of dusk.
It was Andar Royce.
When he learned that Mya was trapped and that the Grafton army was assaulting Arryn Castle, Andar didn't hesitate. He immediately rallied the garrison of several thousand men stationed at Runestone and rode for her rescue.
He owed his escape to Mya—he would not let her die while he lived.
Andar Royce roared, lowering his lance.
The two thousand Runestone cavalry smashed like a hammer into the unguarded rear of the Grafton host.
The sudden, devastating strike broke the enemy's lines at once.
Caught between two forces, panic swept through the ranks. Soldiers screamed and scattered, their formation crumbling.
The troops still besieging the castle faltered as chaos rippled through them. The mercenaries on the walls, seizing the moment, rallied and counterattacked with renewed fury.
"Hold formation! Rear ranks, turn about! Face them!"
Lord Gerold's eyes bulged as he bellowed orders, his voice raw, desperate to hold his collapsing army together.
But the tide had already turned.
House Royce's cavalry tore through the disordered infantry like a blade through cloth, cutting down men as they plunged deep into the fray. The Grafton formation broke completely.
In the chaos, Lord Gerold himself took a stray arrow to the shoulder. Pain ripped through him, nearly knocking him from his saddle.
"Protect the Lord! Fall back! Retreat to Gulltown!"
His captain of the guard shouted above the din, gathering the battered remnants of Gerold's household knights. They shielded their wounded lord as they fled, abandoning armor and weapons, galloping in disarray toward Gulltown.
The field was strewn with bodies—Grafton soldiers slain in heaps. The survivors threw down their weapons, surrendering or fleeing wherever they could.
From the ramparts, Isembard Arryn watched the enemy's rout. His gaze found Andar Royce cutting through the battlefield like a god of war. The terror in his heart melted, replaced by something darker and wilder.
Opportunity. A once-in-a-lifetime chance.
"The gates! Open the gates!"
He shouted down to the men below. "Everyone, with me! Pursue Gerold Grafton! Take Gulltown! Victory is ours! Glory to the Queen!"
Mad with triumph, Isembard saw nothing but the shining harbor beyond—the promise of gold, of power, of a future ruled by his own hand.
The castle gates groaned open.
Isembard spurred his horse forward, leading his bloodstained mercenaries and several bands of Royce soldiers driven mad by victory. Together, they charged after the retreating Grafton forces, thundering toward Gulltown.
Andar Royce had just struck down a Grafton officer when he turned and saw them— Isembard and his men storming ahead like a wave breaking loose from its shore, heading straight for the city.
His gut twisted. "Stop! Fall back! Do not pursue!"
But it was too late.
The mercenaries, drunk on blood, and a number of Royce riders had already followed Isembard toward Gulltown's gates, still half open in the confusion.
Defeated and pursuers alike flooded through, pouring into the city.
The Vale's grandest port descended into horror.
The fighting spilled from the gates into the narrow, winding streets.
Mercenaries hacked down fleeing soldiers and town guards. Others, driven by greed, began looting shops, setting fires that spread from building to building.
The remnants of House Grafton's men, clinging to their knowledge of the city's alleys, fought desperate, cornered skirmishes.
The air filled with the screams of Gulltown's citizens, the clash of steel, and the roar of burning timber. The once-bustling streets that had smelled of fish and salt and trade now reeked of blood.
Through the chaos, Isembard Arryn rode with his personal guard, his eyes fixed on the towering keep of House Grafton.
At a blood-soaked crossroads, he found them—Lord Gerold Grafton, pale from blood loss and barely upright in his saddle, surrounded by a handful of exhausted bodyguards.
After a brief but savage struggle, every guard lay dead.
Isembard leveled his ornate longsword at Lord Gerold Grafton, who was pinned to the ground, his face smeared with blood. A twisted grin spread across Isembard's face.
"Lord Gerold, Gulltown now belongs to the Queen—and you are the traitor."
He personally bound the rightful Lord of Gulltown hand and foot, dragging him back to Arryn Castle as his prisoner.
News of Gulltown's fall and Lord Grafton's capture spread swiftly throughout the Vale, its impact no less earth-shaking than Mya's coronation.
The entire Vale descended into chaos and panic.
Every house—whether of the Lords Declarant or once-neutral factions—was stunned by how quickly the situation had spiraled out of control.
...
At the Eyrie, Lysa Tully's shrieks echoed through the halls as porcelain shattered against the walls. "It was Yohn Royce! He ordered this! It wasn't enough for him to try to overthrow my little Robert—now he's crowned some bastard queen and attacked Gulltown! He wants to destroy the Vale! He wants to destroy House Arryn!"
She flung herself into Littlefinger's arms, sobbing uncontrollably. "Petyr, my love, kill them! Kill the entire Royce family! Kill that bastard!"
Littlefinger stroked her trembling back, his voice soft, but his mind raced behind calm eyes.
Mya Stone crowned as queen?
Isembard Arryn capturing Gulltown?
Perfect.
The gods themselves could not have handed him a better gift. Now the accusation of "treason" would fit the Lords Declarant like a glove.
He crossed to his writing desk, spread out a sheet of parchment, and began drafting a letter in the most solemn and outraged tone.
He denounced the so-called Righteous Alliance for installing a false monarch, seizing Gulltown by force, imprisoning its lawful lord, and conspiring to overthrow the Vale's rightful rule. He pleaded with Her Majesty, Queen Regent Cersei, to dispatch the royal host at once—to crush the rebellion and preserve House Arryn.
...
Duskendale, Dun Fort.
By the time the raven from the Eyrie delivered Littlefinger's letter, the council chamber of Dun Fort was heavy with tension.
"The Queen?"
After the maester finished reading, Cersei gave a sharp laugh. "Fools, all of them! That decrepit Yohn Royce, and now some nameless bastard girl... Mya Stone? Ha! My husband left bastards scattered across the realm, and now each one is scrambling for the stage?"
Lord Kevan Lannister, the Hand of the King, sighed heavily, rubbing at his temples.
"Cersei, it isn't so simple. The Vale is in complete turmoil—the Righteous Alliance, the Arryns of Gulltown, that self-proclaimed queen, Lysa, and Littlefinger... all fighting one another. If we intervene now, we risk being swallowed by the chaos ourselves.
Damion's son Lucion is still in the Westerlands dealing with those damned Dothraki raiders—he took ten thousand of our best men. Damion and Ser Addam Marbrand are leading another fifteen thousand, but even at full speed, they'll need two weeks to reach Duskendale.
At present, we have only fifteen thousand Lannister regulars and five thousand Crownlands soldiers. That's barely enough to hold Duskendale, let alone march on the Vale."
Cersei's eyes flashed. "Uncle Kevan, are we to let those rebels rule the Vale unchecked? To let them spit on the name of Lannister? Littlefinger acts under my command. An attack on him is an insult to me—an open challenge to the Iron Throne itself!"
She rose abruptly. "Not enough men? Hmph! That northern pup Robb Stark hired Dothraki savages to fight his battles—why shouldn't we? Speak to that greedy Easterner. If it takes gold to crush the Vale's rebels, then so be it. I'll show all of Westeros what happens when someone dares defy the lion."
"Hire mercenaries? Dothraki?!"
Kevan's face went pale with fury. "Cersei! Have you gone mad? That Stark boy conspired with savages to invade the Seven Kingdoms—treason! He turned his back on the Seven, invited wolves into his home, and it led him to ruin. His own lords betrayed and murdered him!
And you, Queen Regent of the realm, would follow in his footsteps? Let those blood-drinking heathens who worship false gods set foot on Westeros soil? They'll devour the land like locusts! You disgrace your father's memory—you doom House Lannister itself!"
His chest heaved as he pointed at her, trembling with rage. For the first time in his life, Kevan wished he could drag his late brother Tywin back from the grave—anything to stop this madness.
The chamber fell into a suffocating silence.
Then Jaime, who had been standing quietly by the table, spoke.
"Mercenaries are unwise—especially Dothraki," he said evenly. "But Uncle Kevan, if the Vale's chaos spreads unchecked, it could grow into a far greater disaster. Littlefinger may be untrustworthy, but at least in name he still serves Tommen's rule."
He stepped forward. "Give me five thousand Lannister soldiers. The rest must remain here to guard Duskendale and ensure Tommen's safety. As for reinforcements... I'll raise men across the Crownlands. Promise them land and coin after the war—we'll have several thousand in no time. I'll lead them into the Vale, secure the Gates of the Moon, support Littlefinger, and see whether we can divide the Lords Declarant—or at least stop Mya Stone's influence from spreading further."
Kevan's furrowed brow eased slightly.
Five thousand elite Lannister troops—painful, but manageable. And peasant levies from the Crownlands, though weak, were still Westerosi—far preferable to unleashing foreign savages on their soil.
Jaime's offer, too, carried something rare from him: a sense of responsibility.
Kevan was silent for a long moment before nodding heavily. "Very well. You'll have five thousand Lannister soldiers. The conscription of the Crownlands will be under your full command. But tread carefully."
"I will, Uncle."
Jaime inclined his head, his golden hair catching the light.