Thud!

The wildling grunted. Ned opened his eyes and saw Orryl falter. His axe was still poised, but he seemed to have forgotten he was holding it.

Thud!

Orryl gave another grunt, staggering forward, two arrows fletched with grey goose feathers protruding from his back. He no longer seemed to care about Ned. Someone was screaming, but it was far off. He dropped his axe and was lifted off his feet, his head sailing through the air, and fell to the ground in a lifeless heap. A horse galloped past Orryl's corpse, turned, then trotted back to tower over Ned.

"Gods be good," the rider exclaimed, dismounting.

As the rider knelt, Ned was able to see part of his surcoat through the blur in his vision, black iron studs on bronze.

"Yohn?" Ned asked, his voice thick with pain as he tried to rise.

"Yohn Royce is my father. He is here as well. No, my lord, don't rise." The young Royce man laid a hand on Ned's chest and forced him back to the ground, firmly, though not ungently. "Just lie back until the maester can see to you."

"Andar?" His head felt thick and clouded, like a stream choked off by mud, yet it seemed the most plausible option. Waymar Royce, Bronze Yohn's youngest son, had joined the Night's Watch and was lost beyond the Wall, Ned remembered, though he could not recall what had become of Yohn's second son.

"Aye, my lord, it is an honor to finally meet you. My father speaks very highly of you."

"Jon . . . the king . . ."

"The maester is tending to your king now, but he should be along shortly. Your king is . . . he is well, considering." That was all he would say on the matter. Andar's attention was drawn away for a moment, then he stood. "The maester has come, my lord, and my father with him."

A chubby red-faced man knelt over him, dressed in the grey robes that marked him as a maester. "Hold still, my lord. You may have broken something."

Ned ground his teeth while the maester poked and prodded his limbs. He very nearly throttled him when he began to do the same to his ribs. The maester cleaned the wounds on arm and head with boiling wine, stitched the one on his arm with silken thread and gave him willow bark to chew, then leaned back and nodded. "Nothing is broken, my lord. The cut on your head was not deep, and your arm will heal in time. You were very fortunate."

"I don't feel fortunate, maester." Two voices chuckled at Ned's jape: the maester, light and nasally, and the other, deep and throaty. Ned recognized the other voice at once. "Help me up, Yohn, if you would."

Two large hands gripped him by the underarms and pulled him up to the smiling face of Bronze Yohn Royce. The years had aged Yohn like age was prone to do, but he looked as fierce as ever. He wore the set of bronze armor that had been passed down by the lords of House Royce for thousands of years. It was incised with runes from the time of the First Men. It is said that the runes protect the armor's wearer from all harm.

"You should not be on your feet yet, my lord," the maester fretted, his jowls quivering.

"Quiet, Germund, Ned is a northman. They breed 'em tough up there." Yohn gripped Ned's shoulders companionably and grinned. "Gods, Ned, it's been too long. It's good to see you."

Ned couldn't help but smile. "You as well, old friend."

A shout cut off further conversation. "M'lord!" Ned turned to see Gendry hunched over, panting and shaking. "It's Theon, m'lord . . . he woke during the battle. I tried to stop him, but he got his bow and joined the fight . . . he's barely breathing."

"Help him," Yohn Royce commanded, and the maester hurried off after Gendry.

Ned tried to follow, but Yohn blocked his path. "What are you-" he began.

"Maester Germund is the finest healer I've seen," said Yohn Royce. "The man'll be fine, or he won't, there's naught you can do about it. Your king asked for you. The wildlings broke when they saw us crest the rise and threw themselves at the left in desperation. Your king is among the wounded."

Ned was moving before he even knew where he was going. He looked up and was surprised to see the sun had risen. He hadn't noticed. All along the road men in Royce livery carried northman and wildling alike and chucked them into the valley. It saddened Ned that he could not provide his men with proper burials, but the ground around them was rock and gravel, not fit for digging graves. The shadowcats will feast like kings for a fortnight, while I will sup on yet more grief.

He found Barristan and Arthur at the base of the rocky incline, still clad in their white plate, the former standing and the latter kneeling. Jon had to be with them, but Ned couldn't see past the two white knights. His leg was in agony, but he limped as quick as he could manage.

Jon laid sprawled out on his cloak, bare from the waist up. His night-black breastplate laid nearby with two dents in it the size of a man's fist. Dark purple bruises colored the king's stomach and chest, and he did not stir at Ned's approach, though he was able to relax at the sight of the steady rise-and-fall of Jon's chest.

Ser Barristan removed his helm and tucked it beneath his arm. His eyes looked weary, yet alert. "The king was worried for you. Are you well?"

"A few cuts and bruises, nothing to be concerned about. How is he?"

"When Lord Royce arrived, the wildlings threw down their arms and charged at the left flank, desperate to escape. They trampled over friend and foe alike in their haste, and His Grace fell beneath them. The maester says at least two of his ribs are broken, though neither punctured his lungs, thank the gods."

"Thank the gods," Ned echoed. "Do we know how many men were lost?"

"Twelve," Arthur answered, never taking his eyes off Jon. "Three more are like to join them. Ser Perwyn is mostly unscathed. He is assisting the Royce men with the corpses. Ser Stevron is unconscious. Bloody fool saw the wildlings break and thought to slay them as they fled. One of Lord Royce's men rode over him. An accident, to be certain, though I may have to thank the man for ridding us of Frey's preening for a time. Elmar is watching over him, at Jon's command."

Jon's eyes opened groggily at the sound of his name. "Ghost?" he croaked, his voice dry and scratchy.

"He is about, Your Grace," Barristan assured. "He made a meal of a wildling, then I saw him lying by Elmar when the corpse was discarded."

He smiled at that. "I told him . . . to protect my squire. Where . . . Where is Lord Stark?"

Ned ignored the throbbing in his knee and knelt beside Jon. "I am here, Your Grace, and I am well."

"Good, we have t-to continue on." Jon attempted to rise, but Arthur stopped him with a hand at his shoulder.

"Your Grace," said Barristan. "You would not allow the maester to bind your chest until he had seen to Lord Stark. He told you to remain still and gave you milk of the poppy. Do you remember?"

Jon mulled that over for a moment. "Damned maester," he huffed, though he laid back all the same. Soon after, he was nodding off once more.

Arthur sighed. "His Grace is not wholly wrong. It would be best to move on. I don't trust Lord Royce, and we now number less than twenty to his hundred."

"I will speak with him, Arthur," Ned replied, "but I trust him, foolish as it may be."

Barristan laid his helm on the ground. "I would like to speak with him as well, Lord Stark, if I may join you. I have seen Lord Royce ride in many a tourney at King's Landing and spoken to him a handful of times. He seemed an honorable man."

Arthur looked up, meeting both their eyes, and said, "Honorable men have found themselves in service to the wrong cause since the dawn of time. It is the same now as it was then. If the day comes when Lysa Arryn commands good Lord Royce to strike our heads off, which do you suppose he'd choose? Honor and duty to his liege, or loyalty to his friend? I am not willing to risk Jon's life on a coin flip, so I will be keeping my sword sharp."

Barristan seemed shocked. "Arthur, I . . ."

Ser Arthur Dayne turned away, grim. "Go and speak with him, Barristan. I will stay to guard the king and pray you right where Lord Royce's honor is concerned."

Ned made to speak, but Barristan laid a mailed hand on his arm and shook his head.

"Arthur is . . . well, he's Arthur," Barristan said once they were out of earshot. "He is oft jovial, as I'm sure you have known, but there are things you may not have noticed. Arthur has barely slept since we departed the Twins. He blames himself for His Grace's injuries. He said as much before you arrived. Once the Kingsguard's ranks have been filled with men worthy of our trust, his burdens should wane . . . I hope."

Ned nodded thoughtfully. "When he was yet living as Daeron Snow, he would tell me that Ser Arthur Dayne had died at that tower. Perhaps in time, once Dawn is returned to him and the war is won, he will begin to feel like himself again." He shook his head. "There is naught that can be done by dwelling on it. Come, let's go and find Yohn."

Barristan made no reply yet followed Ned all the same.

The corpses had been cleared from the road, pools of red blood the only proof there ever was a battle here. A score of men were raising a crude shelter in the middle of the road for the wounded. Others talked in small groups, admiring and bragging of the plunder they had taken off the wildlings.

Yohn Royce was ordering his son to take men to gather firewood when they found him. He seemed in good spirits, just as he had when Ned first spoke with him. He hoped that was a good sign. When Yohn's eyes fell on him, a wide grin broke out across his face. "You're looking better already. I told that maester you wouldn't need any milk of the poppy. Har! And look who we have here . . . Barristan the Bold, as I live and breathe." He stuck out a hand to the knight. "It is an honor, as always, Ser Barristan. When was it last, we met?"

"The Hand's tourney," Barristan answered, giving Yohn's hand a firm shake.

"Aye," said Yohn. "The Hand's tourney. That was not so long ago. You were Lord Commander for a different king, then, ser, if memory serves. And Ned here was Hand to a stag, not a dragon. A lot has changed since, hasn't it?"

"That's what we came to speak to you about-" Ned started.

"You want me to swear fealty to your Targaryen king." Yohn Royce stroked his beard, then waved a hand for them to continue. "For the sake of our friendship, Ned, I will hear what you have to say, but know that I like this not."

"Yohn, Robert was my friend, no man living can deny that. I fought beside him in two wars, drank with him, hunted with him, loved him as any brother could. I rode south to rule as Hand because he had need of me. What I found in King's Landing proved that he was as capable a warrior as any man could hope to be, but he was a terrible king. He sold the realm piece by piece until he was no more than a puppet with his strings being pulled to-and-fro by lions. I tried to save him, gods help me, I tried, but I failed . . ."

"And now Robert's own son, Joffrey of House Baratheon, rules in King's Landing."

Beside him, Ser Barristan snorted in disdain. "Joffrey-called-Baratheon would be more apt, my lord. The boy king is no son of Robert's."

Yohn Royce's mouth fell agape. "Surely you jest?"

"He would not jest of such a thing," Ned said evenly. "It is the truth I was charged with treason to hide. I had planned on telling Robert when he returned from his hunt, but I made the mistake of warning Cersei so that she might save her children. Instead of fleeing, she had Robert killed, though I still don't understand how, and threw me in black cells when I confronted her."

Yohn wrung his huge hands, fighting a war within himself. "I swore fealty to the boy king," he said absentmindedly. "I may have broken that vow just by saving the Targaryen."

"You cannot be held to a vow taken with a sword at your neck," Barristan replied. "Make no mistake, my lord, that selfsame boy that no doubt graciously accepted your fealty would have ordered your head off with a smile should you have refused."

"I suppose so, but what would your Targaryen do if I refused to swear my House to him?"

"His Grace would do likewise," Barristan allowed, "but he would take no joy in it, and that is what makes him better. I would imagine some small part of him still wishes for the simplicity of serving at the Wall, yet he fights against all odds, not for himself, but to unite the Seven Kingdoms under a just ruler. It is what the realm requires."

Yohn pondered on that for a while, then nodded slowly. "I'll think on it, Ned, and I will see you safely to the Gates of the Moon, on that I give you my word."

Any further words were cut short by the arrival of the maester, and he looked graven. He addressed Lord Royce with the customary bow and, "My lord," frowning all the while. Then, he turned to Ned. "Lord Stark, there is good news and bad news concerning the Greyjoy boy, I'm afraid. The good news is the arrow missed anything vital, and it was easily removed. The bad news . . ."

"Tell me," Ned managed, his voice breaking. He felt sick, and the throbbing in his knee had returned in force.

"He has lost a lot of blood, despite the wound. Your squire informed me that he fought in the battle with the arrow still in his leg. That was very ill-advised, my lord, it must be said. The fever has passed, but he is still very weak. I fear that milk of the poppy, in any amount, will likely finish him off."

The maester slipped a hand up the sleeve of his robe and produced a vial of thick, chalky liquid.

"What is that Germund?" Yohn asked.

But Ned knew what it was almost at once. "Sweetsleep."

"I feel it would be the best option, my lord. The boy is as good as dead already. It is a testament to his strength that he has survived this long. It will be painless. He will just drift off and never wake- ahh!" Maester Germund let out a scream and tripped over his robes, hastily fleeing from Ned's lunging form, and fell back on his arse.

Ned saw red. He no longer felt the throbbing in his leg, nor did he feel Ser Barristan holding him back as he struggled mightily against him. All he felt was anger, at the chubby maester for his failure, but also at himself . . . because Theon had saved his life. Through the fury came a clarity Ned had not felt in some time. The arrows had been Theon's, Ned knew it as he knew his own name, and now Theon might die so that he could live.

"Ned." Yohn's voice broke him from his fury.

"What?" he choked out.

Yohn Royce's face appeared in front of his own, blocking his view of the maester. "Germund will do all that he can to save your ward, but we cannot stay here longer than a night. If the rumors are true and the Imp has bought the wildings, there may be a larger force on their way here now. We are not far from the Bloody Gate. If Greyjoy makes it there, he will have all that he needs to recover."

Ned let out a deep breath, though he could not say how long he had been holding it, and the anger fled him. "I'm alright now, Barristan, you can let me go."

Yohn helped the maester to his feet. "Germund, under no circumstances are you to administer sweetsleep to Lord Stark's ward. Treat him as best you can."

"Y-yes, my l-l-lord," Germund stammered, "but f-f-first I must b-bind the Targary-yens ribs."

"Best get on with it then, hadn't you?" Yohn Royce turned back and laid a hand on Ned's shoulder. "The wounded tent should be up by now. You need rest, old friend, and food."

Ned allowed himself to be led to where the crude tent had been erected in the middle of the high road. Inside, men laid sprawled in various stages of undress. Most were asleep, and they did not stir at his entrance. They laid him down on the ground at the back of the tent, well away from the other wounded, and left.

Time seemed to have taken flight while he lay on the hard ground. Morning turned to evening, then evening into night. The only light became the fire outside the tent. Every now and again, a piece of gravel dug into his back and he would have to shift until it went away. Rest would not come, but food and drink did. The salt pork and bread were left to stand vigil beside him, but he drank deep of the ale that was provided, and eventually he fell into a restless sleep.

Dawn came all too early, and with it rose the camp. Tents were taken down, horses saddled and bridled, then they were off once more. Ned's leg had stopped aching during the night, but he graciously accepted some willow bark to chew from the maester. He had apologized for his behavior, but the maester still stuttered and backed away whenever he saw Ned.

Three more northmen died in the night, just as Arthur had predicted. Their bodies joined the others at the bottom of the valley. Theon remained among the living, though he could not walk, so a stretcher was built from wood and leather to carry him and lashed between two horses. The king paled when he mounted his horse that morn and winced whenever his tunic brushed against his bandaged chest, but elsewise he seemed to be healing well.

Ned rode at the front of the column beside Lord Royce but said not a word except in response. It was a quiet ride, thankfully, but not a man was able to relax until they reached the Bloody Gate in the late afternoon.

The Bloody Gate consisted of two immense watchtowers, built against the sides of the narrow pass. The watchtowers were joined by a covered bridge of grey stone that arced above the road. Sunlight glinted off the arrowheads bristling from the arrow slits in the battlements, towers, and bridges. At this range, it would be almost impossible for them to miss.

"WHO WOULD PASS THE BLOODY GATE?" a voice boomed, echoing off the mountain pass.

Jon rode to the front of the column, his crown marking him as a king long before his words did. "I, Jon of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and my companions, wish to pass the Bloody Gate, to seek an audience with Lady Lysa Arryn."

"Turn back and be gone," the voice called. "The Vale does not recognize you as its king, and Lady Arryn has closed to Eyrie to anyone not from the Vale."

Yohn Royce rode up beside Jon. "Donnel! Open the Bloody Gate and let us pass. We have wounded. If Lady Lysa will not see him, then she can send a raven to the Gates of the Moon."

The voice did not reply immediately, but Ned now knew who the new Knight of the Gate was: Ser Donnel Waynwood, second born son of Lady Anya Waynwood. He had just been a babe when Ned was last in the Vale.

"Yohn Royce," Ser Donnel replied at last. "You may pass, but the Targaryen and his companions must turn back. I warned you they would not be allowed passage when you rode out from here."

"Aye, you did. Do you remember what I told you?"

Only silence came from up on the battlements.

"I warnedyou that if you shut the Bloody Gate, I'd scale the wall and give you a clout on the ear," Lord Royce shouted, "but now I've reconsidered. If you don't open the gate, I'll send a raven to your lady mother and she'll come down here to give you a lot worse than a clout on the ear."

The silence spanned on for a few more minutes . . . then the gate opened.

Ser Donnel Waynwood rode out on a dappled grey courser, his helm in hand. On his shield the broken wheel of House Waynwood was painted in black. "There will be no need to send any ravens, Lord Royce. The Targaryen and his companions may pass but be warned . . . Lady Arryn will not take kindly to their arrival."

"Thank you, ser, for allowing us through" said Jon. "It will not be forgotten."

Ser Donnel bowed his head. "I ask only that you make no trouble while you are in the Vale."

Jon grimaced. "On that, I cannot give you my word, ser. Trouble has plagued me since birth, but I can give you my word that I will seek none out."

"I suppose that will do." He turned his horse around and rode back through the gate.

That night they supped on bread and beef stew with carrots and onions. Mugs of dark ale so thick one could almost chew it were poured, and Royce and northman alike drunk deep of it, happy to have reached the safety of the Vale. Cheers rang out across the hall and laughs were shared. Casks were emptied almost as fast as they could be brought up.

Yet not all was merriment. At the urging of Ser Arthur, the king decided to take his meal in the chamber provided him. Ned ate with the men, but he took no joy in it. How could he, while Theon was at death's door and more than half their men laid at the bottom of a valley being gnawed on by shadowcats. It was not the sort of thoughts that allowed for cheers and laughter. He might have taken his meal in his chamber, but he wanted to see the garrison's reaction to their arrival. A few men had joined them at table, but most sat huddled with Ser Donnel at the opposite end of the hall, whispering amongst themselves.

The door to the hall creaked open. Jon strode in, flanked on either side by his Kingsguard, with his crown atop his head and red cloak cinched at the shoulder by a silver three-headed dragon. He stopped first to speak with their men. He praised Ser Stevron for his courage on the battlefield and drank a mug of ale for the dead, then greeted Sandor Frey and wished him well on his path to knighthood.

Jon placed a hand on Ned's shoulder. "Come with me. Ser Donnel may prove to be the key to House Waynwood. We cannot leave without attempting to persuade him to join us."

Ned rose from the table and followed Jon across the hall. Ser Donnel's men stopped whispering as they approached and took to watching them warily.

"Ser Donnel," Jon greeted the young knight. "We did not get the opportunity to speak at the gate."

"Aye, what of it?" Donnel responded brusquely.

"I would change that now."

Ser Donnel took a swig from his ale. "Go and join the festivities, men. It seems this king means to convince me into fealty."

The trestle table cleared, though not a man of them seemed glad by their dismissal. Jon and Ned took the seats across from Donnel, the two knights remaining standing behind them. Ned spoke first. "Your mother was a good friend to me during my time in the Vale."

"She was, but I did not dismiss my men to reminisce on your past experiences. When you were last in the Vale, a claimant to the throne did not ride with you. Now, your king asked to speak, so let him try to convince me, or you both can return to your men."

"After I have finished at the Eyrie, I intend to ride for Ironoaks to speak with your lady mother. I would appreciate your assistance in convincing her to join me. The word of her son would help greatly."

"Why should my mother grant you her support? There are four kings in the realm."

"Only one has the rightful claim."

Ser Donnel snorted and took a swig of ale. "Your rightful claim will be tested on the battlefield, again and again until even you question it. If you fall, the maesters will declare whichever of you that remains as the rightful king and quote some dusty old tome to support it. The only difference is that if my mother declares for you and you lose, we will die with you. So, I will not be recommending a thing to my mother. She will have to come to her own decision on you, but I would not expect overly much."

Jon's mouth set in a hard line. "I have ridden to the Vale in peace . . . this time. I will ask each of the Vale lords for their fealty, and should they join me, it will not be forgotten when I come into my throne. But when the three pretenders are defeated, I will not rule over a broken realm."

"Best of luck then, Your Grace. Those so-called pretenders have rather large armies."

Jon stood from the table abruptly, wincing as his tunic brushed against his ribs, and turned to leave.

"Be gone at dawn," Ser Donnel said to the king's back.

Ned did not return to his table. He had had enough celebration for one night.

They departed at dawn the following morning, as commanded. Theon remained at the Bloody Gate with the maester and a score of Lord Royce's men. Descending the mountain was slow-going, the path misty and narrow, and no one felt much like talking. A horse broke its ankle on a jagged rock within the first hour. The rider was forced to walk back to the Bloody Gate. An hour later, the sun rose high enough to banish the mist from the path, and they lost no more horses to the uneven ground.

They reached the valley floor at midday, the road growing straighter and wider. It had been too long since Ned was last here, and it had only grown more beautiful. Grass and wildflowers cropped up on either side of them. Lord Royce sped their pace then, cantering through verdant forests and sleepy little hamlets, past orchards and fields of golden wheat, and across a dozen sunlit streams.

The sun was far to the west when the stout castle built at the base of the Giant's Lance came into view. The portcullis was up, and the drawbridge lowered, which Ned supposed was a good sign. A dozen men rode out over the bridge, immaculate in their bright enameled plate and helmets plumed with silk streamers.

At their head was a man not dressed in plate, but in a black silken tunic laced with white-and-sky blue thread, and a black cloak lined with vair. The man, Nestor Royce, was not so fine as his clothes. He was bald and barrel-chested, with a thick greying beard and a face that made a smile look like a scowl. He was smiling now.

"Your Grace," Nestor Royce greeted amiably. "You are most welcome here at the Gates of the Moon, but I fear you will not find the same in the Eyrie."

"I am no stranger to being unwelcome, yet I have come all the same."

"Indeed, you have. Well, as I said, you are most welcome here, Your Grace. There will be fresh fodder for your horses and ample food for your men while you await Lady Arryn's raven." He turned to Yohn and a true scowl appeared. "Cousin, how good it is to see you. We did not expect you."

"Nor should you have," Yohn replied curtly. "I did not inform any of my intentions."

"You might have sent a rider. We are not prepared to house so many."

"There will be no need to house my men, Nestor. They'll camp out here."

"There has been no raven from Lysa?" Ned intervened. "Ser Donnel said he would send word of our arrival."

"And he did, but there has been no reply. Lady Arryn has taken such heavy burdens on herself since Lord Jon's passing, it is of little surprise she has not found the time to send a raven."

"I understand," said Jon, though it was clear he did not. "We thank you for your hospitality, my lord. Might we speak more within, we are all very tired from the ride."

"Of course, of course, would you look at me, prattling on like some fishwife with the morning catch. If you would follow me, my daughter Myranda is most anxious to meet you. She'd have ridden out and met you herself if I hadn't put a stop to it." He chuckled merrily at that and led them over the drawbridge.

Myranda Royce waited just past the gatehouse with two servants, one carrying a tray of bread and the other a bowl of salt. Ned passed beneath the portcullis and barely a glance was paid to him, not that he minded, but when Jon was sighted, Lord Nestor's daughter gasped.

"Your Grace, you're hurt," Myranda exclaimed worriedly.

Jon took off his crown, handed it to his squire, and carefully dismounted. "Aye, but just knowing that a fair lady such as yourself worries for me is a great balm to my wounds." He took one of her hands in his own, bowing his head to lay a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

Nestor Royce puffed out his chest like a rooster, and Myranda Royce's cheeks colored a deep scarlet.

Not for the first time, Ned reflected how well Jon had grown into his role as king. During their long weeks at Winterfell, Jon spent any spare moment practicing his courtesies until he mastered them. It was all for the good, because he would have great need of them here in the Vale.

Jon let go of Myranda's hand and the girl seemed to snap of her stupor. "We have bread . . . an-and salt if you have a hunger? And you Lord Stark . . . and the rest, please, eat."

"Food would be most welcome, my lady. It has been a long journey." He took a piece of bread, dipped it in salt, and ate gingerly. Ned dismounted and ate a piece of the offered bread, even if it was for nothing more than to be granted guest right.

"Be welcome in my home and at my hearth," Nestor Royce proclaimed, spreading his arms wide, "and know that you shall be safe so long as you remain beneath my roof. Now, if you will follow me, I brought up a cask of pear brandy from the cellars just for your arrival. It came from Tyrosh, and I've been saving it for-"

"My lord." A woman strode purposefully across the entry courtyard and up to Nestor Royce. She was tall and slender, with short coal-black hair and deep blue eyes. "The lady sent me with a message for the Targaryen king."

Nestor did not seem pleased by the interruption. "Fine," he huffed. "Go on."

There was no mistaking who had sired the woman, but Ned could not be sure if she knew who her father was.

The woman knelt before Jon. "Your Grace, I am Mya Stone, and I bring a message from Lady Lysa Arryn."

Jon laid a hand on her elbow and helped her to her feet. "Please rise, Mya. Thank you for bringing the message."

"You may want to hold your thanks, Your Grace. You are not like to enjoy the message I bring. Lady Lysa will allow you to ascend and speak with her in the Eyrie, but . . ." She hesitated.

"Out with it, Mya," Nestor ordered.

Mya frowned and looked down at her feet. "Lord Stark is forbidden from entering the Eyrie. If he attempts to, she will have him executed for treason."

"She does not have the authority to execute the King's Hand," Jon stated flatly.

"But she does have the men," said Ser Arthur Dayne. "I urge you once more, Your Grace, do not speak to Lysa Arryn. Let us ride for Gulltown with all haste."

"I have to agree with Ser Arthur. Speaking to Lysa Arryn will win you naught but wasted time," Ned said. He should be shocked that Lysa Arryn, his wife's own sister, would so openly announce her intention to execute him . . . but he was not. She did not seem quite stable when Ned had first met her at Riverrun, and it was said that the miscarriages drove her near to madness.

"Mayhap they are right, sire," Nestor Royce sighed glumly. "You may stay beneath my roof for as long as you like, but I cannot guarantee you safety from Lysa Arryn. I can see you well provisioned, and I'm sure my cousin would accompany you."

"Aye," was all Lord Royce supplied.

Jon's mouth worked silently beneath pursed lips. He lifted his head to look up at the Giant's Lance and remained like that for several minutes. "I will not ride for Gulltown," he said at last, "at least, not yet. I came with the hope of convincing Lysa Arryn to pledge the Vale to me, and I will not leave the Vale until she has heard my plight." Jon turned to Mya. "My Kingsguard, will they be executed if they make the climb with me?"

Mya shrugged. "The lady never mentioned your knights, so I suppose not."

Jon nodded once. "Good . . . we will begin our ascent at dawn" He looked up to where the Eyrie laid, a small flickering light overshadowed by the harsh blacks and browns of the mountain side, and he smiled.