Isembard Arryn's face shone with near-delirious joy as he leapt to his feet.
"By the gods, the Vale is saved! Someone, summon the castle's maester at once! Fetch every septon you can find in town! Prepare the holy oil—prepare the crown!"
A rushed and almost absurd coronation unfolded within the small sept of House Arryn's castle. The place had been hastily decorated, candles burning on every ledge.
The castle's silver-haired maester, frail and trembling, was brought forward to preside over the ceremony. Several bewildered septons, summoned at the last minute, stood by chanting prayers to the Seven.
A makeshift crown—crudely forged from gold bars taken from the castle treasury, inlaid with a few small gems—was carried in.
Mya knelt before the statue of the Seven, dressed in a deep blue velvet gown lent to her by Isembard's lady . The dress was far too grand, too tight at the shoulders, and clearly not made for her.
When the maester, his hands shaking, placed the heavy, ice-cold crown upon her head, the weight of it pressed down until her neck nearly gave way.
She stared up at the blurred faces of the gods upon the altar, her mind empty and spinning with fear. Yet she knew there was no turning back now.
Father...
She called silently to the man who had given her life—and forever changed its course.
"Mya Baratheon, eldest daughter of Robert the First! With the valor of the Warrior, the justice of the Father, and the mercy of the Mother, you are hereby crowned Queen of the First Men, the Andals, and the Rhoynar—the one true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. May the Seven bless you."
The maester's trembling voice echoed through the candlelit hall.
"Long live the Queen!"
Isembard Arryn was the first to shout, his voice raw with excitement. His retainers and a handful of sellsword captains followed, their cheers thin and uneven in the heavy air.
The moment the ceremony ended, Isembard strode straight into his study, seized the terrified maester by the collar, and barked orders in a frenzy.
"Write! Write to every castle in the Seven Kingdoms! To Duskendale! To Winterfell! To Storm's End! To every Great Lord of the Vale and beyond! Tell them—Queen Mya Baratheon, eldest daughter of King Robert, has been crowned in the Vale! Summon all lords loyal to House Baratheon and to justice! Call them to support their Queen and march upon the traitors of the Eyrie!"
Moments later, ravens burst from the rookery of the Arryn stronghold, their black wings scattering across the skies of Westeros, carrying the thunderous news in every direction.
...
The army of the Lords Declarant, led by Lord Yohn Royce, had just reached the steep valley below the Gates of the Moon and was preparing to make camp when a lone rider came hurtling from the rear like an arrow.
The knight was caked in dust, his face pale as chalk. He nearly fell from the saddle, stumbling forward until he collapsed before Lord Yohn, raising a sealed letter marked with a black raven feather—the sign of utmost urgency.
Lord Yohn snatched it from his grasp, his eyes narrowing as he read.
His expression shifted—first relief, then fury. Relief that his son, Andar, had returned safely to Runestone. Fury that Isembard Arryn, that arrogant merchant, had gone so far as to crown Mya Stone.
Isembard Arryn!
That damned fool!
How dare he do something so reckless? To declare Mya Stone a queen?!
He had thrown the Lords Declarant straight into the fire. It would fracture the Vale, stain the Alliance as traitors, and hand Littlefinger and Lysa the perfect weapon to destroy them.
And worse still—what would Lord Grafton of Gulltown think?
This was nothing less than open rebellion—right under his very nose.
"Madman! Isembard Arryn, that complete lunatic!"
Lord Yohn roared, his voice echoing across the command tent. In an instant, he understood—the crisis had grown far beyond the Eyrie.
"Messenger! Reverse the columns! Rear ranks to the front! The entire army turns—march on Gulltown!"
...
At Gulltown, Lord Gerold Grafton received the news even faster than Lord Royce.
The messenger burst into the stronghold of House Grafton, a castle overlooking the bustling harbor, just as Count Gerold was finishing his breakfast.
"My lord! Isembard Arryn has crowned Robert's bastard—Mya Stone—as queen! The ceremony took place right in their castle sept!"
Clang!
The silver knife slipped from Gerold's hand, clattering against the fine porcelain plate with a sharp ring. He rose abruptly, his face flushing red, then paling, then darkening until it settled into a cold, iron hue.
"Isembard Arryn!!"
His furious roar shook the great hall. In one motion, he overturned the heavy oak dining table—cups, plates, and dishes crashed to the floor in a storm of shattering porcelain.
"Who does that merchant think he is? A peddler dares to crown a false queen on my lands? This is the greatest insult to House Grafton—an open challenge to Gulltown's sovereignty—and treason of the highest order!
Rally every soldier, every knight! Surround the Arryn Castle! Drag that arrogant fool Isembard Arryn out, and seize that ridiculous 'queen' of his!"
House Grafton's forces moved with ruthless efficiency.
Within half a day, three thousand well-armed soldiers, personally led by Lord Gerold himself, marched from the castle in tight formation. Like a flood breaking through its dam, they surged toward the manor fortress of House Arryn of Gulltown, just beyond the city's outskirts.
Isembard Arryn stood atop his castle wall, watching the dark line of the approaching Grafton army stretch across the horizon. There was no fear in his heart—only the wild thrill of a gambler who had staked everything on one final throw.
His two thousand sellswords were already in position, hardened killers whose loyalty was bought in gold. They cared nothing for rebellion or rightful kingship—only for their pay.
"Hold the walls! Hold the gates!"
Isembard waved his longsword, shouting over the rising wind. "Drive them back and I'll double every man's wages! Kill Gerold Grafton himself, and you'll have a manor of your own!"
The promise of gold unleashed a feral roar from the sellswords.
Battle erupted in an instant.
House Grafton's soldiers advanced in disciplined waves, their arrows darkening the sky as battering rams thundered against the iron-banded gates.
The sellswords retaliated from the battlements, hurling stones, rolling logs, and vats of boiling oil down upon the attackers.
The fighting was vicious and bloody.
Using their superior numbers and training, Grafton's men seized several stretches of the outer wall. There, the struggle devolved into brutal close combat—steel clashing at arm's length as men screamed and fell into the blood-soaked courtyard below.
Isembard fought on the ramparts himself, hacking down Grafton soldiers with his guards, a crazed snarl twisting his face.
Inside the keep, Mya Stone cowered in the corner of her chamber. The deafening clash of steel and the dying cries outside tore through her like knives. Her body trembled uncontrollably.
Gods...
What have I done?
How many have died because of me?
Terror and guilt swallowed her whole.
Outside, the sellswords were dying by the dozens. The defense faltered. Even Isembard's manic courage began to falter as dread seeped into his chest.
Then—
Rumble... Rumble... Rumble!
A deep, thunderous roar echoed from behind the Grafton lines, growing louder by the second. The ground trembled beneath the soldiers' feet.
Lord Gerold turned in astonishment.
A great cavalry host was charging from the hills, banners snapping wildly in the wind.
The sigil upon the foremost standard gleamed unmistakably.
House Royce!
...
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