Gaemon XII

Gaemon had learned during the war that whilst armies could be followed by land with the proper use of outriders, it was trivial to follow them by air. In the skies, their cookfires serve as beacons. For several days the Cannibal and Sheepstealer had taken a straightforward path, following the High Road towards the Bloody Gate, before veering southeast to follow its branching path towards the Redfort. A day past they had stopped at the stout fortress, explaining their purpose to its castellan and warming themselves in its great hall, nourishing themselves upon freshly baked bread and roast boar. Nettles' clansmen companions had thankfully kept to themselves, seemingly unconcerned with the open vitriol that the Valemen leveled at them. In more peaceable times Gaemon would have loved to explore the ancient seat, studying its unique combinations of Andalic and First Men stoneworks and reading of its histories, but time had been of the essence, so they had instead departed at dawn the next morning, urging their mounts onward through the icy winds that scourged them to the bone. The Vale is beautiful in the winter, but its beauty is akin to that of a Pentoshi dagger… fair to look upon, but all too easy to cut oneself with.

The heat that radiated off of the Cannibal helped to ward off some of the chill, and Gaemon had taken to flying atop it nearly prone, letting the great black spines of its neck block the winds and snow flurries, his furs trailing behind him. The dragon was so large that some of the spines themselves were nearly four to five feet tall. Years of competition for meals had rendered the Cannibal lean, but by wingspan alone Gaemon was certain that only Silverwing and Dreamfyre yet rivaled its size. He removed his right hand from a fur-lined glove, placing it upon the jet black scales of his dragon, feeling the fire beneath them and the ripples of muscle that twisted and flexed beneath, delicately adjusting to each whim of the winds and maintaining its path upon their mercurial gusts.

Far below, the worn stones of the high road stretched on before them, cutting a path through the windswept and stoney expanses of the Redfort's lands. Having spent his childhood upon Dragonstone, Gaemon knew poor farming soil when he saw it. Whilst some of the Vale sported excellent farmland, much of its foothills and hinterlands possessed only thin layers of soil that allowed for only the most rugged of grasses to grow upon it. According to Gaemon's readings in the Arryn library, many of the lords of the Vale, the Redforts and Royces amongst them, had kept many hundreds of sheep upon their lands, allowing them to graze and collecting their wool for export, usually sold for considerable profit to the weaving guilds of Braavos and Pentos. Gulltown owed much of its wealth to that trade, its large and deep natural harbor serving as an excellent port of call for wool merchants.

In times of peace, lord and shepherd, merchant and sailing captain all found themselves woven into an elaborate and lucrative partnership. But with war at the Vale's doorstep Gaemon could see neither sheep nor shepherd below him. Instead, smoke rose a few miles ahead, rising in scores of individual gray ribbons before being scattered by the wailing winds. Lord Waynwood's host. He glanced as his companion, herself nestled within the mud-brown spikes at the base of Sheepstealer's neck, almost lost amongst them. Her dragon, whilst large, kept its distance from the Cannibal, no doubt a habit developed from many harrowing encounters in the shadows of the Dragonmont. Whilst the Cannibal had begrudgingly ceased its outright predatory behavior towards other dragons, its company still left much to be desired. No amount of Gaemon's cajoling could make it sociable, let alone cordial, with its scaled brethren. He drew his dragon whip from its place within his saddlebags, cracking it several times in the air, encouraging his dragon to begin the long descent towards Lord Waynwood's encampment. Nettles followed suit behind him, the Sheepstealer's roar echoing amongst the rolling hills. They circled the camp before landing, watching as men scurried about, calling for their armor or swords. By the time they had alighted upon a rise a few hundred feet from the hastily constructed village of tents. Horses cried and pulled at their stakes in fear of the dragons, which quickly coiled to conserve what heat remained to them.

Two armored men led a column of knights, one sporting a deep green tabard with a broken wagon wheel upon his chest and the other the blue falcon of the Arryns. Gaemon recognized Lord Donnel Waynwood, and assumed the knight with him was none other than Ser Joffrey Arryn, Lady Jeyne's proclaimed heir.

Dismounting, Gaemon considered bringing Darksister with him, but decided against it. That blade carries too much history. He waited for Nettles to clamber off of Sheepstealer patiently, then proceeded with her to speak with those assembled to greet them. He had to refrain from laughing as he watched her walk alongside him. Her clansmen companions had insisted that she wear layers of furs to ward off a chill, and her insistence on also wearing her mail atop the furs gave her the rather convincing appearance of an armored bear cub. Thankfully her hood prevented her from seeing his smirk, thus avoiding the inevitable curses that would have undoubtedly poured forth in torrent from beneath her fur hood. Such an entrance would… leave much to be desired.

Lord Waynwood was a tall man, taller than Gaemon, and likely of a height with Maegor, though more wiry. He stood impatiently, hand upon the hilt of his sword as they approached, eyeing the clansmen that shadowed Nettles.

It was Ser Joffrey that spoke first. "The Lady Jessamyn told me that I should expect aid on the horizon, but I would be lying if I expected it to come in the form of a few Painted Dogs, atop dragons no less. I can think of few more terrifying prospects."

Off to a poor start already. "My apologies, my Lord. We meant no disrespect. My Lady companion did not wish to be parted from her loyal servants, who have followed her since the beginning of her exile within these lands. Now that I have retrieved her, she felt that they had earned the right to remain as her sworn swords."

Lord Donnel spat. "Eldric Arryn already claims that Lady Jeyne has disregarded the traditions of the Vale in not allowing Ser Arnold to remain her heir. What will he say once he hears of clansmen joining our ranks?"

"He will likely complain about it as well. But complaints are rarely of much use against a dragon, let alone two of them. We have come to put an end to this folly. The Vale survived the war mostly unscathed, and it would be a travesty for it to shed the blood of its men now."

Ser Joffrey nodded hesitantly. "On that we can agree. Unfortunately as of yet Ser Eldric has refused our offers of negotiations. Rebellion is unacceptable, but given the circumstances, I have offered the release of his father, so long as they each take the black. By renouncing their claims the line of succession would be righted in the eyes of all Lords, as my father was cousin to Ser Arnold."

Gaemon glanced at the hills to the east, eyeing the distant banners of the Royces and their Tollett vassals. "I plan to fly to speak with Eldric shortly. Have there been any attacks since the attempt on Sir Corwyn's life?"

Ser Joffrey shook his head. "We have had almost no contact whatsoever since that day. The few messengers we have sent have returned unharmed. The Royces, of course, are denying any responsibility for the attack. We expected them to, of course, but the boldness of their lies aggravates nonetheless." He sneered in the direction of their camp. "But to see them forced to prostrate themselves before a son of the Rogue Prince will be a rich prize indeed. Their cause is hopeless so long as we can count upon the aid of the Crown and its dragons."

Gaemon resisted the urge to scowl. I intend to stop the bloodshed, but it is bold to assume my aid for his cause. He had not forgotten Eldric's words to him, and his belief that he and his father had been treated most unjustly. He was privately determined to hear his words and see for himself how to rule. If he is not guilty of the attack on Ser Corwyn, then his father's claim should be weighed.

Finally, he spoke. "I hope that it shall not come to that. It would please me to avoid burning any men today."

Ser Joffrey nodded. "A man who stays his hand when blood could be spilt is a wise man. We Valemen know such things to be true." Gaemon thought his words fair, but Ser Joffrey's eyes remained cold, frigid as the biting winds that whipped about.

If the camp of the Waynwoods and their Redfort allies had been bustling, the Royce's camp was far more somber. Bronze banners stirred softly in the cool winds, their ancient runes indecipherable. The faces of the men that patrolled the hill and encampment were grim, and they avoided meeting Gaemon's gaze as he was led to the great pavilion of Lord Gunthor Royce. Nettles kept close, eyeing those around them suspiciously, her clansmen forming a tight ring about her and Gaemon, keeping their razor-sharp bone knives close at hand and watching for any signs of foul play. When they reached the tent itself, Gaemon pulled the flap to enter, noticing that his companion's posture had become even more stiff. He eyed Nettles carefully, as if to question if she wished to follow. After a moment's hesitation she nodded, following him inside.

The interior of the Royce's temporary abode was swelteringly warm, with a large brazier filled with coals accomplishing the admirable job of ensuring all were warm. Gathered around the brazier were several faces Gaemon recognized, and several that he did not. Eldric Arryn offered him a smile, and Sam Shett was quick to follow suit. Willam Royce crossed the distance quickly between them, his feet less unsteady than Gaemon remembered, but his grasp was still light as he took his arm, and he looked thin to the eye.

Two men neither rose nor spoke as they gazed upon him. The first was a large man, likely nearly twenty stone, who wore his long gray hair braided with bronze rings. The second was a thin man, wrapped in grays and blacks, whose graying hair had receded into a firm widow's peak.

Willam Royce was the first to speak. "Lord Gaemon. We are pleased to host you, despite the circumstances in these trying times. I can only imagine the calumnies that have been spoken to you about us all since you have arrived in the Vale. Lady Jeyne always had a… complicated relationship with our family."

Gunthor snorted. "It was a wonder she never struck my head from my shoulders. After I called the banners for my goodson the first time I was certain it'd be the end of me. Mayhaps she felt some degree of regret over that business with Rhea." As he mentioned the lady's name, his eyes bored into Gaemon. "I don't suppose your sire ever spoke of her, my Lord Waters?"

Eyes darted from the Lord of Runestone to Gaemon. "I spoke on perhaps three occasions with my sire. In those brief instances, his first lady wife was never mentioned. His second was never mentioned either, for that matter. We… spoke very little."

Lord Gunthor watched him carefully. "Then your sire was a poor father, bastard or not. I am sure it is little solace, but I can assure you he was a poorer husband. My niece was a sweet girl, and I regret her passing. You will forgive me for my lack of warmth, especially in these circumstances."

Gaemon nodded gravely. "There is little to forgive, my lord. I am here on the Crown's business, and my companion and I intend to put an end to this conflict before it is permitted to engulf the entire Vale of Arryn."

At that, Eldric finally spoke. "Lord Gaemon, it is well that you have come. We have received word that Ser Corwyn was attacked on his way to Runestone to treat with us. I assume you have been informed?"

Gaemon eyed the blonde man carefully. "I was informed. I was also told in no uncertain terms that you were responsible. There are few who look upon your cause with sympathy within the Gates of the Moon."

Eldric frowned. "That comes as little surprise. Lady Jessamyn was always more than fond of her liege, and has few reasons to speak fondly of my father or I. Jeyne's court was kept full of those most loyal to her. But to claim I was responsible for Ser Corwyn's wounding… that is absurd. What cause would I have to do something so heinous? Ser Corwyn and I were never close, but an attempt on his life would only sully my name. The Vale does not look kindly upon those without honor."

"Whilst I would agree that slaying Ser Corwyn on the High Road would make little sense, that still leaves us without a culprit. And even if you did not attack him, you have called upon Lord Royce and his bannermen to revolt in your name. That is an offense punishable by death or exile at the least."

Ser Willam Royce spoke. "We are no traitors, my Lord. I served the Queen as faithfully as any man in her service. I did not dream of abandoning her cause, not even after her death. We marched in the same host, and championed the same successor. I am no turncloak, nor grasping wretch. My grandfather has called his banners to ensure that the rightful succession of the Vale is observed, just as we did for the Crown."

Nettles shifted uncomfortably, but Gaemon doubted that any noticed. "Whilst none can deny you fought for the rightful heir in the last war, you are denying the Lady Jeyne's own writ and will that Ser Joffrey succeed her. He is her declared heir, despite her closer kinship to Ser Arnold Arryn."

Lord Tollett finally spoke. "The Iron Throne may allow for a King to declare his heir, but the Vale has laws that date back many centuries that explicitly define the matters of succession. According to Andalic law dating to the foundation of the Arryn dynasty, an heir of a King's body comes before that of a younger brother, but a younger brother comes before a distant cousin! King Artys IV Arryn declared it to be so before all of his bannermen nearly nine hundred years ago after a distant member of his kin had attempted to usurp his throne. Since the days of yore the Vale has followed Artys IV's decrees to the letter. Lady Jeyne had no right to overrule her own family's decrees, regardless of any personal animosities she might have felt! Only the Iron Throne has such power, and neither Viserys nor Rhaenyra after him offered a ruling on the Vale's succession."

Lord Gunthor spoke next. "Arnold may be my goodson, but he is also the rightful Lord of the Vale with Jeyne's passing. Those who support Joffrey are spitting upon ancient and lawful tradition." His eyes narrowed. "Ser Joffrey has also steadfastly refused to marry until this point. You may not be familiar with the current heirs and heiresses of the Vale, but I can assure you that those that cling most firmly to Ser Joffrey's side each have daughters of marriageable age. Lord Donnel himself has a daughter of six-and-ten."

Ser Eldric nodded. "Lest my enemies claim otherwise, my father's claim is not just acknowledged by my kin… The Duttons and the Templetons have declared for my lord sire, and I have received private correspondence from the Sunderlys and Melcolms. I still hope to win the Belmores and Egens to my father's side as well. The Redforts and Corbrays may deny my sire, as do the Lynderlys and Waynwoods. But blood cannot be denied. I have hope yet that the Vale will see reason without bloodshed. If it is not too bold to say… I have hope that the Crown will see my father's cause as just as well."

The Crown, which conveniently at this point is represented by two dragonseeds, who have no declared loyalties. Gaemon crossed his arms. "The Crown's representative is currently fighting for his life within the maester's quarters at the Gates of the Moon. I may be a Constable, but I was tasked to ensure my friend's safe return to the Crown's fold, not to rule upon matters of regional succession. I will do what I must to prevent violence, but I am uncertain that my powers extend to matters of inheritance."

Ser Eldric crossed the distance, taking his place directly before Gaemon. "My Lord, your writ may not extend officially to such matters, but violence will not be stopped unless matters of succession are settled. I do not know Ser Joffrey, but I know of him. He is a hard man, prone to solving problems with the edge of a blade rather than the quill of a pen. His numbers grow by the day, and we remain separated from our friends. He will act if he is not commanded to stand down."

Lord Gunthor grunted. "I have perhaps nearly four hundred men-at-arms, one hundred knights, and Lord Tollett's additional forty sworn men. Between us we have assembled our levies, perhaps another two thousand men. I left Runestone with a garrison of green boys and greybeards, taking all the men I could spare. When reinforcements from the Redforts arrive, amongst other Lords that support Ser Joffrey, I expect that he will opt for a frontal assault. We will be forced to withdraw towards Runestone, if we are able to survive their assault to begin with. Many will die either way."

Gaemon glanced at Nettles, who had pulled her furs back in the heat of the tent. Her lips were pursed. When she met his gaze, no answers could be found in hers. "The presence of our dragons will deprive them of an opportunity to attack. We will ensure the two hosts remain separate." He winced internally as he spoke his next words. "It would be remiss of me to not add: Ser Joffrey has sworn that you and your father would be granted the option to take the black, should you agree to surrender. He has stated no desire for reprisals against your supporters, only that he favors peace."

Ser Sam Shett chuckled. "Pretty words. I think he would allow for Eldric and his father to take ship to Eastwatch. I also believe that we would shortly thereafter receive word that they had attempted to escape, and in the process been slain."

Eldric nodded. "We appreciate your assistance, my Lord. But I truly believe that my life is forfeit if and when you depart, as is that of my father's. Ser Joffrey has been known to slay entire villages of mountain clansmen for abducting even one of the smallfolk. His campaigns of retaliation against the attacks on members of the highborn have been even bloodier. He will not suffer any loose ends to his reign."

Gaemon was feeling the beginnings of a nasty headache. But he was also beginning to believe that it had been a mistake to treat with Ser Eldric so far within their camp. I do not believe my life is in danger, but I also do not believe that Nettles or I will be permitted to leave unless we rule favorably on the succession. He was attempting to devise a satisfactory solution that would not involve making false promises when the sound of warhorns sounded throughout the camp.

At once, the men within rose to their feet, calling for their arms and armor. Eldric grabbed Gaemon's arm hastily. "It appears that Ser Joffrey lacked the patience for negotiations!" A squire arrived and began suiting Eldric as quickly as possible, but Gaemon denied the offers for arms and armor, instead pulling Nettles with him and exiting the pavilion. They made their way through the camp as they had come, forcing their way through the men rushing about in hasty preparation for war.

When they reached the edge of the stockade that ringed the Royce encampment, Gaemon pushed his way through the assembled sentries, casting his eyes about the fields beyond. Instead of a great host, however, he spotted Ser Joffrey Arryn atop a massive silver destrier, flanked by two knights in Arryn the foothills beyond, however, he saw columns of armed men assembling, the Arryn falcon, Waynwood wheel, and red castles of the Red Fort billowing in the breeze above many hundreds of sparkling spear points. In the skies above, the Cannibal and Sheepstealer had taken flight, circling the field like carrion.

Dispelling his fear, Gaemon turned to Nettles. "I am going out there. This must not be allowed to go any further."

Casting her eyes about the field, Nettles' expression turned sour. "Gaemon…" She sighed in exasperation. "Why must this always happen? These lords and ladies always make such arses of themselves in the end. They just can't help themselves!" She ran a small hand through her mess of curls. She cast a glance at a few boys running by, nearly tripping over the spears they had been given. Stomping her foot into the earth, she eyed the army across the field. "Ugh… fuck!" Turning to gaze at Gaemon, she looked at him firmly. "You realize we are going to have to pick one of these cunts, right? They're going to keep trying to kill each other until we pick one and tell the other to kick rocks. We have to pick a side."

Gaemon nodded. "I know. The trouble is, I don't know which of them to trust. One of them, or maybe both, are lying to us!"

Nettles eyed him with a look that screamed: obviously. "They likely both are! Their kind aren't bred for plain words and straight talk."

"You don't have to come with me, you know? This was my doing, bringing us here. You need not endanger yourself on my behalf!"

The slit-nosed girl before him rolled her eyes. "Get moving. If you take much longer I won't go with you."

Smirking, Gaemon decided not to push his luck. He pushed past the Royce levies attempting to form a hedge of spears and continued into the field beyond, the semi-frozen grasses crunching beneath his feet. Nettles caught up with him with quicker strides, her clansmen keeping apace with each of them. Somewhere in the chaos a few of them had obtained spears, and Gaemon did not bother to ask whether they had asked politely for them, for he did not wish to know the answer. Crossing the field in silence, Gaemon came to a halt before Ser Joffrey.

"What is the meaning of this, Ser? Your actions are throwing my efforts at maintaining the peace into jeopardy!"

A wet sack landed heavily at Gaemon's feet. He used his foot to lift the lining, and was greeted with the sightless gaze of two severed heads.

"That is the meaning of this, Ser. Not even an hour had passed since your departure, and these two men set upon me in mine own pavilion. They cut their way through the lining to get past my guards. Had I not continued to wear my sword upon my person, I would have been granted a red smile for my trouble!"

Gaemon scowled, his headache in full force now. "Did they confess to who had hired them?"

Ser Joffrey scoffed. "I did not have the luxury of putting them to the question. I slew one immediately and my guards ran the other through, having heard the commotion."

The sound of galloping hooves sounded the coming of more riders. Ser Joffrey drew his sword, the steel glistening in the winter sun. His guards followed suit. Drawing up a few feet behind Gaemon's party, Ser Eldric and Ser Sam Shett arrived in haste, escorted by knights wearing armor with runic bronze garnishes atop the steel.

Ser Eldric cast an eye at the heads, before narrowing his gaze and facing Ser Joffrey. "I suppose you blame me for this as well, kinsman?"

Ser Joffrey smiled a cruel smile, his lips tight. "I had not had the pleasure of assigning the blame as of yet, kinsman. But I assure you, I hold you fully accountable."

Ser Eldric laughed mirthlessly beneath his falcon-like helm. "Of that I am certain. Nothing I will say will dissuade you, so I shan't make a case in mine own defense."

Gaemon was growing furious by this point. "Sers, I will remind you that breaking the King's Peace is treason. Whosoever sheds the first blood shall be held accountable, regardless of guilt in prior transgressions. I have sworn to uphold the King's Peace, and I intend to do so." Raising a hand to point at the sky above, he added: "I need not remind you that it is not mine own wrath you need fear, Sers, but that of my dragon."

Ser Joffrey nodded curtly. "I am the King's man for good and all, Ser. But this infighting cannot be allowed to continue. The Lady Jeyne's will must be upheld, as Ser Corwyn intended to do before he was so cruelly laid low!"

Ser Eldric scoffed. "Laid low by your own designs, more like! Of what use would it be to me to slay a royal envoy? If one were to be slain and the blame laid at my feet, however… that would be a boon indeed to a man whose own succession has ever been in doubt!"

The light sound of the gauntlet landing upon the Earth was softer than Gaemon would've expected it to be. Turning, he saw Ser Joffrey point directly at Ser Eldric. "I will take your tongue for that calumny, kinsman. Then I will make a gift of your head to your crazed father. I challenge you to settle this between ourselves, on a field of honor, though it is far less than you deserve."

At the mention of his father, Eldric's face darkened. Outrage gave way to hatred, a deep and abiding hate that poured forth palpably. "My sire is not to be insulted, Ser. I will have satisfaction for that slight, and the other accusations you have heaped upon me."

At that, Ser Sam Shett spoke. "Eldric, you cannot. Even should you win, you will be damned in the eyes of Gods and men as a kinslayer, and none are so accursed. Let me stand in your stead."

Ser Joffrey chuckled grimly. "It matters not. I have slain more men by my hand than either of you could ever dream of. The pleasure of your death will simply have to wait until your sworn man's blood whets my blade."

Eldric sat atop his horse in silence, glancing at the armies assembling around them, at the dragons above, and at his friend beside him. Finally, he nodded to Ser Sam. "Do it then, Sam. And may the Seven be with you."

Gaemon felt that he was losing control of the events around him, and was not sure as to how to pull the disparate threads back together once more. "Sers, there is no need for bloodshed! Can we not allow for words to triumph in place of steel?"

Ser Eldric gazed upon Gaemon. "It is best this way, my Lord Waters. Surely you see that however this duel is settled, the succession will be decided. If Sam cannot best Ser Joffrey, my life will be forfeit. My father is in no state to resist, and can be dispatched to the Wall shortly thereafter. If Sam lays Ser Joffrey low, his claim will die with him. At least this way no man need die who does not need to."

Ser Joffrey scoffed. "A noble sentiment for a cutthroat. The Sky Cells may have broken your father, but before he was a gibbering fool he was a usurper. Blood always tells, boy."

They say the same about bastards, Gaemon mused, a scowl forming. Glancing at Ser Eldric, he nodded. "So be it then. I will stand aside. Let the matter be settled by combat."

In minutes, spears had been planted in a square of one hundred feet by one hundred feet, and a rope ran along the perimeter so as to establish the boundaries for the duel. Ser Joffrey Arryn was already suited for combat, so his squires took little time in checking his armor's fastenings and confirming that he was ready for combat. Across the designated ground, Ser Eldric assisted with Ser Sam's own armor, watched closely by Ser Willam Royce as well as Lords Tollett and Royce. Ser Eldric gave Ser Sam a slap on the back to wish him well, signifying that he was ready for combat. The two knights entered the marked ground, men from both sides cheering them on. Ser Joffrey's armor was finely made, and bore the scars of many skirmishes, each faded after having been polished away. Ser Sam's armor was older, passed down amongst the generations of knights that called Gull Tower home. His shield, however, was lovingly painted, its black and white checkers spotlessly portrayed alongside the three golden wings of his house.

Ser Joffrey paid little heed to the encouragement of his allies or the jeers of his enemies, shifting quickly into a combat stance and approaching Ser Sam immediately. The knight of Gull Tower hefted his choice of weapon, a morning star, and raised it, swinging it in lazy circles absentmindedly as he narrowed the distance between him and his foe. In a flash, the combat began, with the crowds growing quiet quickly as the anticipation gave way to concentration. Ser Joffrey effortlessly maneuvered around Ser Sam's lightning fast swings, the spiked ball of the morningstar missing his helm by inches each time. Working his way within the Shett knight's guard, he used his shield to bat the morningstar's wooden handle away, sending Ser Sam's swing awry and jabbing with his blade towards the place where gorget and helm meet. Steel scraped loudly as Ser Sam's armor deflected the blow, and Ser Joffrey danced backwards, leaving the reach of the morning star, his early attempt to end the fight foiled.

What followed was a minute or so where each knight attempted to bait the other into a true contest, testing each other's guards and striking at weak points. Each was too seasoned of a fighter to simply hack away at the other; they conserved their energy for when it would matter the most, striking quickly, like serpents. All the while the dragons above continued to circle. Eventually Ser Joffrey darted inwards, catching a blow from his opponent's morningstar upon his shield and sidestepping past and behind him, cutting expertly at the unarmored rear of Ser Sam's knee. The knight stumbled, blood welling from his leg. Luckily for the knight of Gull Tower, a last second shifting on his part had allowed him to avoid the strike's intended target, with Ser Joffrey's blade drawing first blood without hobbling the Knight of Gull Tower. Sam Shett's trials had not ended however.

The moment he stumbled Ser Joffrey was on him, a flurry of blows falling upon the younger knight and pushing him backwards. The Shett knight stumbled and fell, with cries of dismay sounding from Royce's men. Ser Joffrey pounced upon him, taking his sword's blade point into his hand and landing atop the Shett knight, using his weight to force the knight to stay upon his back and guiding the point of his blade to the slit in his helm. With a roar Sam Shett brought his untrapped arm around, landing a ringing blow upon Ser Joffrey's helm with his morningstar and sending him sprawling. Ser Joffrey rose, but his steps were akin to that of a drunk man. Ser Sam clambered to his feet, before tackling the now disoriented knight to the ground. Ser Joffrey dropped his sword in the fall, and his hand flashed quickly, disappearing under Ser Sam's arm, prompting Ser Sam to roar in rage and pain. To his credit, the Shett knight did not allow for Ser Joffrey's strike to stop him, bringing his morning star downwards in a powerful arc and connecting once more with Ser Joffrey's helm, this time with a sickening crunch. The Arryn knight's legs kicked unsteadily for a few moments, his hands twitching at his sides, before finally going still.

The Redfort and Waynwood host grew deathly silent as Ser Sam Shett rose, shuffling unsteadily past the spear wall and taking a hastily offered seat. As Gaemon approached, Ser Eldric was already calling for a wineskin, his voice concerned. Ser Sam removed his helm, brown hair soaked in sweat and his skin sallow.

"My congratulations, Ser Shett. In the eyes of the Seven and the Crown you have proven your lord and master not only innocent, but secured his sire's succession to the Eyrie!"

Sam Shett nodded, calling again for wine. Turning to Ser Eldric, he muttered: "Gods, but I am thirsty." By this point, Ser Eldric was showing signs of panic. He began to quickly undo the straps for the Knight of Gulltown's breastplate as the knight slumped further against his chair. It was only then that Gaemon saw the blood that was flowing freely from beneath the knight's mailed arm.

Noticing, Ser Eldric called for help, his voice cracking. Royce's men-at-arms assisted in laying the knight upon the wintry earth, but by the time they had unfastened his armor, he had grown still, his knight and companion weeping at his side.

Gaemon was not sure what to say, but was spared the need to speak by the blaring of horns in the surrounding hills. Turning confusedly around, he watched as both Redfort, Waynwood, and Royce men alike began to scramble in the sound of chaos at the thundering of hooves. In little time, the entire assembly was surrounded by men bearing the the Golden Falcon banners of Isembard Arryn, alongside the Yellow Towers of the Graftons and the garish foreign banners of Pentoshi and Braavosi sellswords. Above the general dismay, he heard the outraged roar of Lord Gunthor, demanding to know the meaning of "this nonsense" and haphazardly calling his men to arms.

Will this day ever end? Gaemon wondered dully.

After the initial chaos subsided, it became clear that Isembard Arryn had little desire to butcher the men of his fellow lords wholesale. Gaemon had once more had to shove his way through the throng, appreciating the help of the clansmen in clearing a path for him and Nettles. They made their way to the largest of the gilded falcon banners, finding Ser Isembard dismounting, looking rather pleased for a man whose expression was normally rather neutral. Though he wore fine steel armor, the patriarch of the Gulltown Arryns could not avoid his penchant for expensive finery, and sported a stunning tabard of cloth-of-gold, making him easy to identify. Whilst his curly blonde hair had long since begun to gray, his sky-blue eyes remained sharp, and upon sighting Gaemon they grew amused.

"My apologies, Ser-no, rather Lord Gaemon! Congratulations are in order for your recent ennoblement and elevation! Twas a well deserved boon indeed, after your extensive service to the Queen."

Gaemon allowed himself to smile, hoping it did not look too forced. He liked Isembard, but misliked his arrival. Everything about it was too exact. And after campaigning with the man for months, Gaemon knew that Isembard was not the type of man to do anything coincidentally.

"Well met, Ser Isembard. I missed our war councils and comradeship after your departure from the capital! Your timing is… both fortuitous and unfortunate, in equal measures. We have settled a trial of arms over slights and a succession."

Isembard laughed at Gaemon's remark, but his eyes did not share in the mirth. "Should I be hailing Lord Joffrey, or Lord Arnold?"

"The latter, Ser. Though Lord Arnold's son may be in no mood to celebrate, for his companion and champion did not long survive the fight."

Isembard watched him closely. "That is ill-news indeed, my Lord. I must go and pay my respects."

The Gulltown Arryn motioned as if to request that Gaemon lead him, escorted by Pentoshi sellswords whose oiled beards smelled of eastern incense. Before they could travel too far, however, a man's voice rang out, huffing with exertion. Gaemon thought he saw Ser Isembard roll his eyes, but he could not be certain. In time, a portly man caught up to them, escorted by two men-at-arms bedecked in the Grafton reds and yellows.

Ser Isembard cleared his throat. "Lord Waters, allow me to introduce Lord Brynden Grafton, my goodson and benefactor."

After he caught his breath, the portly man bowed deeply. "We have had word of you in Gulltown, Lord Constable. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. My only regret is that I was unable to serve the Queen's cause at your side. I bitterly regret that our former Lady of Arryn forbade her Lords from riding forth when you issued your call for aid."

Gaemon nodded. "Well met, Lord Grafton. On campaign, Ser Isembard had much to say of you, and all of it was positive. I am well-pleased to meet the man who inspired so many fond stories."

Ser Isembard eyed him bemusedly from where he stood to Lord Grafton's right.

Lord Brynden nodded vociferously, looking pleased as punch. "I assure you, the hon…"

"We really must be continuing onwards, my Lord." To his credit, Ser Isembard managed to withhold almost all of the impatience from his voice.

"Ah, must we? What demands our attention so immediately?" Asked Lord Brynden, slightly annoyed.

"We must acclaim the new heir to the Vale, and pay our condolences after the death of his champion."

"In that case, I understand the necessity for haste, Ser. Let us go forth!"

Gaemon led the two men and their escorts onwards, finding Nettles watching over an emotionally drained Ser Eldric. After his departure, the bodies of Ser Sam and Ser Joffrey had been loaded atop a cart, and to preserve their dignity in death, Ser Joffrey's falcon banner had been laid atop them. The silver moon had turned blood red whilst resting atop the ruin that was Ser Joffrey's face.

Lord Gunthor Royce and Lord Donnel Waynwood awaited them, alongside Lord Tollett. The men had been in the midst of some sort of aggravated discussion as Gaemon and the others arrived, stopping short to regard the newcomers.

Lord Gunthor broke the silence. "Your timing is impeccable as always, Lord Brynden. I wasn't sure whether you'd ever arrive, or whether you would simply wait til someone had actually claimed the Eyrie to swear obeisance."

Lord Brynden scoffed. "A pleasure as always, Lord Gunthor. Greetings, Lord Donnel, Lord Eddard."

Ser Isembard cut through the exchanged greetings, kneeling before Ser Eldric with the grace of a seasoned courtier. "Allow me and my goodson to both offer our condolences for the death of your sworn sword, and our leal service as your men, Ser. It was ever our hope to arrive in time to support your claim."

Lord Gunthor grumbled. "We've been sitting here for days! And we'd sent you a raven before that! Your aid would have been welcomed far earlier, had it been offered."

Ser Isembard waved the elder Royce off. "Braavosi and Pentoshi swords do not grow on trees, nor can they swim the Narrow Sea at will. My delay was necessary to gather sufficient men to be of true aid to the cause."

Lord Donnel shook his head. "To be in possession of significant leverage would be a more accurate turn of phrase."

Ser Isembard ignored the Waynwood lord, his eyes upon Ser Eldric. In the distance, the whickering of horses and shouts of Essosi tongues could still be heard. Separated from their respective camps, the hosts of the Royces and Waynwoods were uncomfortably exposed against so many mounted men.

Ser Eldric, his exhaustion palpable, offered a small smile to Ser Isembard. "It is good that you've arrived, my Lord. We were all discussing the immediate need to liberate my sire from his imprisonment within the Gates of the Moon. I would welcome your support, as well as that of Lord Brynden."

Ser Isembard smiled, and motioned excitedly towards a crowd of approaching Grafton knights. When the group arrived, they separated, revealing a young woman dressed in the same cloth-of-gold as the Gilded Falcon.

Ser Isembard took the girl by the hand, gazing fondly upon her blonde tresses. "The honor of supporting your father's cause will be ours, Ser. Allow me to introduce my youngest daughter, Rowena. When we told her of the righteousness of your sire's cause, she insisted that she come along. I simply could not deny her."

Ser Eldric nodded. "My Lady, I welcome you to our cause as well."

Unseen by all except her fellow dragonseed, Nettles rolled her eyes.