The High Road
The Arryn party moved steadily through the mountains.
Pines clung to the slopes above, dark and stubborn. Higher still, mist dragged itself across the mountain faces in pale strips.
In a few hours, they would reach the Bloody Gate.
Two carriages rolled along the path. The first carried Lord Taron Arryn. The second followed close behind, carrying Lady Janyce and her sons. Around them rode Vale knights and retainers in steady formation. Spears rose and dipped with the movement of the horses.
Near the front of the party, a brown-haired young knight breathed in deeply. Cold air filled his lungs. He smiled.
"Gods, that's better," he said. "I can smell the mountains again."
The older knight riding beside him gave a dry laugh. His beard was touched with grey, and his cloak was drawn tight against the wind.
"Aye," the older knight said. "Another day in King's Landing and I'd have gone nose-blind."
A round-faced retainer on the other side sighed regretfully. "I'll miss the whores, though."
The men nearest them chuckled.
The brown-haired knight grinned and looked over at him. "That's all you'll miss?"
"Best thing in the city," the round-faced man said solemnly.
The older knight snorted. "That is because no woman in the Vale will look at you twice."
"That's why King's Landing whores are better," the round-faced retainer said. "There, a man's face matters less than his purse."
That brought another round of snickers from the riders. Even a few men behind them chuckled.
The horses kept their rhythm beneath it all. Hooves struck stone and dirt. Leather creaked. Mail shifted with each rise and fall of the road.
The round-faced retainer turned his head and glanced toward another rider.
The man had red eyes, messy hair, and the blank stare of someone who had either slept too little or drunk too much.
Likely both.
He sat his horse well enough, but his gaze was fixed on the road ahead as though his soul had not yet caught up with his body.
The round-faced retainer leaned sideways in the saddle.
"Oi. Drunkard."
The red-eyed man blinked. Slowly.
The round-faced retainer grinned. "We're in the Vale already. You can stop mourning the taverns."
The red-eyed retainer turned his head, as if the words had reached him late.
"Already?"
"Aye."
The man gave a small, hoarse chuckle. "Good."
The older knight laughed through his nose.
"You're lucky Lord Taron did not see you this morning. He'd have had you sleeping in the stables."
The round-faced retainer's grin widened.
The red-eyed man looked pained. He scoffed and rubbed at his face with one hand. "Stop talking. My head's still ringing."
"Make yourself some mountain tea, then," the brown-haired knight said.
The red-eyed man gave him a suspicious look. "Mountain tea?"
"Aye. Boiled moss, bitter leaves, and a bit of squirrel shit for the kick."
The round-faced retainer barked a laugh.
The older knight shook his head as he smiled.
"That would kill me," the red-eyed man muttered.
"Then drink less next time."
"Then speak less next time."
The men laughed again.
The sound carried between the horses and faded into the open mountain air.
The brown-haired knight looked ahead as the road bent deeper between the ridges. The laughter eased, but the warmth of it remained.
Behind him, the first carriage rolled over a rough patch in the road.
Inside, Lord Taron Arryn sat with his arms crossed, dozing lightly despite the motion. A wine cup rested near him, half-forgotten. Each jolt of the wheels made his shoulder twitch or his head dip. Once, his eyes opened halfway, unfocused and annoyed.
Then the carriage rocked again.
He shifted in his seat, breathed out through his nose, and sank back into sleep.
In the second carriage, Lady Janyce sat with Osric asleep against her lap.
The boy's mouth had fallen slightly open, one cheek pressed into the fold of her gown. Janyce stroked his hair slowly each time the carriage jostled him. Across from her, Godric leaned near the window with both hands braced against the frame.
He stared out at the foggy hills.
"Do you see the peaks?" Janyce asked softly.
Godric nodded without looking back. "They look bigger than before."
"They always do when you come home."
Outside, the riders continued on.
Near the front, the older knight was still teasing the red-eyed retainer in a low voice. The round-faced man added something under his breath, and the brown-haired knight smiled faintly when the red-eyed man answered with a tired curse.
The party moved deeper between the mountain ranges.
And the mountains closed around them.
High above the mountain road, a boy crouched behind a jagged rock.
He was thin, sharp-faced, and no older than fifteen. Scrub grass brushed against his knees. Loose stones dug into his palms. A twisted pine root curled beside him like a dead hand. His rough clothes were the color of dirt and old bark, and his tangled hair hung low over his brow.
He did not move.
Far below, the Arryn party passed through the mountains.
Two carriages.
Mounted knights.
Retainers.
Spears.
The boy watched them from his hiding place, his eyes narrowed against the pale light. His gaze lingered on the carriages.
The first carriage rolled past a bend in the road.
The boy waited.
Then the second carriage followed.
He turned away from the edge and pressed one hand near his mouth. A sharp birdcall burst from him.
Loud. Piercing.
It bounced once against the rocks and faded into the mountain air. The boy lowered himself at once and went still again.
For a moment, nothing answered.
Then, farther along the slope, another head lifted.
A second boy lay hidden among low brush and scattered stones. He had been chewing a strip of dried meat, but he stopped the moment he heard the call. His eyes flicked toward the road below, then toward the direction of the sound.
He spat the meat into his hand. Then he cupped his fingers near his mouth and answered. Another birdcall.
Shorter. With a different rhythm.
It carried across the slope and slipped between the pines.
A third watcher heard it from a narrow ledge.
He was older than the first two, but not by much. He sat with his back against stone, a spear across his knees. At the sound, he rose into a crouch and looked toward the deeper mountain path.
He answered.
The call moved on. From ridge to ridge. From stone to scrub. From boy to boy.
It travelled ahead of the Arryn party, faster than horse, faster than wheel, passing through hidden mouths.
In the lower folds of the Mountains of the Moon, the Stone Crow camp waited.
Smoke rose from small fires. Huts made from hide, branches, and stacked stone clung to the mountainside. Dogs nosed through ash and scraps. Boys carried bundles of spears. Men sat on stones, sharpening axes with slow strokes. Women moved between cooking fires, skins, and rough sleeping places, their eyes lowered more often than not.
At the center of the camp sat Ulf.
He wore the dead chief's place now.
A rough cloak of skins hung from his shoulders. A crude helm rested near his hand, dented and dark, marked with old scratches. Around his neck hung bone, iron, and bits of stolen bronze.
They looked ugly on him.
They looked right.
Two women served him food and drink. One placed a wooden bowl beside him. Another poured sour ale into a horn cup. Men nearby watched without seeming to watch, their heads slightly lowered.
Ulf ate slowly.
Like a man enjoying the taste of power.
Then a runner came scrambling down between the huts.
He nearly slipped on loose stone, caught himself, and staggered into the open space before Ulf. His breath came hard. One hand braced against his knee.
"Chief."
Ulf looked up.
The runner swallowed. "The call came."
Around the fires, hands stopped moving.
The scrape of stone against axe-edge went quiet.
The runner pointed back toward the slope. "Two carriages. Knights with them. On the road. Close."
Then he took a deep breath. "The Arryns are here. Going back to the Eyrie."
For a moment, Ulf did not speak.
Then his mouth spread into a smile.
Savage. Hungry.
He rose from his seat.
The women stepped back.
A boy near the fire stared up at him. A man with a scar across his cheek stood slowly. Others turned. Waiting.
Ulf reached down and took up his axe.
He struck his fist against his chest.
Once.
Again.
The sound was heavy. Meat and bone against meat and bone.
Then he threw his head back and let out a harsh cry.
A call for blood.
The men nearest him answered.
Fists struck chests.
One man beat the haft of his axe against a shield-rim. Another snatched up a spear and raised it high. Youths came out from the huts. Boys with knives. Men with axes. Half-grown lads with more teeth than sense. Some grinned. Some looked nervous.
Ulf's voice cut through them.
"The falcons come through our mountains!"
A roar answered him.
He struck his chest again. "Their knights killed our blood. Today we pay them back!"
More voices rose.
"The dead are owed!"
"The dead are owed!"
Ulf lifted his axe toward the road they could not yet see.
"Let them bring steel. Let them bring horses. Let them bring their highborn women and soft daughters." His teeth showed. "Stone breaks steel when it falls from high enough."
The camp erupted.
Axes struck shield-rims.
Spears rose.
Men beat their chests until the sound rolled across the camp like thunder trapped between the slopes.
The signal had come.
Back on the High Road
Stone rose on both sides now. The road had narrowed. One cliff climbed steep and broken above the road, all loose rock, scrub, and twisted roots. The other fell away toward a lower slope where jagged stones waited among pale grass. The two carriages rolled through in single file, wheels creaking over dirt and gravel.
The laughter still drifted from the riders ahead. But it sounded thinner here. Swallowed by stone and mist.
The red-eyed retainer rubbed at his temple and squinted down the road. Ahead of him, the brown-haired young knight said something. The round-faced retainer answered. The older knight gave a dry laugh.
He barely heard them.
His mouth tasted sour. His stomach rolled with every step of the horse.
Gods, he wanted quiet.
Then something shifted above.
A scrape. Small. Almost nothing.
Stone against stone.
The red-eyed retainer looked up.
The boulder came down from the cliff.
There was no time for a warning.
No time for a shout.
It struck the front riders with a sound that swallowed everything else.
The brown-haired knight vanished beneath it. The older knight's horse folded under him. The round-faced retainer was smashed aside with the edge of the stone, his body thrown like a broken doll against the road.
Horseflesh burst. Spears snapped. Mail crunched. Bone broke under stone.
For a heartbeat, the red-eyed retainer only stared.
The men who had been laughing a breath ago were gone beneath dust, blood, and broken bodies.
Then the shouting began.
"Ambush!"
"Above! Above!"
"Shields!"
"Protect the carriages!"
His horse reared sideways in terror.
The red-eyed retainer jerked hard on the reins. "Easy! Easy, damn you!"
The animal did not listen. Its hooves skidded over loose rock near the edge of the road. He leaned back, fighting for balance, but the whole world seemed to have tilted beneath him.
More stones thundered down from above.
Small ones first.
Sharp cracks against shields. Against helms. Against bone.
Then another boulder rolled from the slope.
The horse twisted violently.
The red-eyed retainer lost his seat.
He hit the road hard.
The breath left him all at once. His vision blurred white at the edges. He heard hooves. Screams. A horse shrieking nearby. Someone was yelling for the Seven. Someone else was choking.
He tried to push himself up, fumbling for his sword, but…
A shadow rolled over him.
Stone filled his sight.
And everything went black.
***
📜 Milestones:
150 Power Stones → +1 Chapter
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