The dawn was crisp and cold, the kind of morning that made every breath visible in the air.
Under the pale light of early daybreak, the army continued its steady advance into the Mountains of the Moon.
The terrain quickly proved as unforgiving as Brynden "Blackfish" Tully had described. Jagged foothills rose sharply from the earth, their slopes strewn with loose rocks and narrow paths that twisted like serpents through the mountains. Higher up, snow still clung stubbornly to the peaks, glistening faintly under the morning light.
Fortunately, it was not yet winter.
There were no torrential rains to soften the ground, no sudden landslides roaring down the slopes. The most dangerous natural threats—mudslides and falling rock—had, for now, spared them.
Even so, every step forward demanded caution.
Gendry had just fastened the last strap of his black scale armor when he pushed open the flap of his tent.
The chill air greeted him immediately.
Before he could take more than a step, he spotted two familiar figures approaching quickly—Jon Snow and Dacey Mormont.
Both wore serious expressions.
"There's a situation, my lord," Jon said without preamble, his tone urgent.
Gendry studied him briefly.
Jon bore the unmistakable look of the Starks—far more than Robb ever had. Where Robb carried the softer features of House Tully, Jon's face was longer, his build lean, his dark brown hair framing a solemn face marked by grey eyes that often carried a hint of quiet melancholy.
"What is it?" Gendry asked.
Jon didn't hesitate.
"The Hill Tribesmen have blocked the road ahead."
Gendry's expression hardened slightly.
"Are they attacking?"
"No," Jon replied, shaking his head. "They're not forming for battle. They want to talk."
Before Gendry could respond, another voice cut in.
"Talk?"
Bronze Yohn Royce stepped forward, already clad in his heavy, rune-engraved armor. His longsword rested confidently at his side, his posture firm and unyielding.
"These mountain savages are poorly equipped and undisciplined. We could ride them down without difficulty."
His tone carried a soldier's practicality—direct, decisive, and impatient.
"They are not knights of the Vale."
But Brynden Tully—Blackfish—shook his head.
"That would be a mistake."
His voice, though slightly hoarse with age, carried the weight of long experience.
"Our objective is the Bloody Gate—not a drawn-out conflict in the mountains."
He gestured toward the surrounding terrain.
"These people are not conventional enemies. They wear no proper armor, they lack supplies, and many are half-starved. But they possess two advantages we do not—courage, and complete familiarity with these mountains."
"If they retreat into the hills," he continued, "they vanish."
"And once they begin striking from the shadows… this becomes a war we cannot win quickly."
The others fell silent.
Blackfish's blue eyes narrowed slightly.
"I've dealt with them before. They rarely gather in large numbers like this—especially not to parley."
He paused.
"Which makes this… unusual."
Gendry considered for a moment before speaking.
"I'll go."
Blackfish looked at him but did not object.
If the tribes had chosen to reveal themselves rather than ambush the column, it meant they wanted something—badly enough to risk exposure.
Negotiation, then, was the wiser path.
The source of the commotion lay atop a wind-carved ridge not far ahead.
As Gendry approached, flanked by a small escort, he could see them clearly.
Hill Tribesmen.
A ragged, uneven force perched along the ridge like scavengers watching their prey.
They were mounted, though their horses were lean and hardy rather than noble war steeds. Their appearance was rough—patched armor, mismatched weapons, cloaks of mottled shadowcat fur draped across their shoulders.
They looked less like an army and more like survivors.
Below, the Vale knights shifted restlessly, ready for combat. Anguy and the longbowmen had already drawn arrows, waiting for the slightest signal.
A single volley could likely cut down every visible tribesman.
But that wouldn't end it.
It would only begin something far worse.
At the forefront of the ridge, a banner fluttered.
Not a proper banner—just a shadowcat skin tied to a long pole.
It waved deliberately.
A signal.
They wanted to talk.
Gendry stepped forward, his voice carrying across the rocky expanse.
"The mountain paths are treacherous," he called out. "Why block our way?"
"Have you come to taste our wine—or test our steel?"
A murmur passed through the tribesmen.
Then, one figure rode forward.
He was large, broad-shouldered, and carried a massive greatsword across his back.
"I am Dos, son of Dolf, of the Tresdman Tribe!"
His voice was loud and unrefined—but not without authority.
"The mountains are ours," he declared. "The roads are ours."
Gendry tilted his head slightly.
"So you intend to stop us?"
Dos hesitated—then shook his head.
"Not exactly."
His tone shifted, becoming almost… practical.
"If you offer gifts, we will let you pass safely."
He gestured toward Gendry's army.
"Swords. Spears. Armor."
Behind Gendry, Blackfish stepped forward slightly.
"This is the King of the Stag," he said evenly.
"Your tone does not sound like one used when bargaining with a king."
Dos scratched his beard.
"We don't kneel," he replied bluntly. "But 'king' sounds stronger than 'chief.'"
He squinted at Gendry.
"I've heard of lions and stags. Some followed the lion's son down the mountain."
"Are the lion and the stag friends?"
Gendry laughed.
"Not particularly."
Then his gaze sharpened.
"What about the Burned Men?"
The effect was immediate.
Dos's expression darkened.
Behind him, several tribesmen shifted uneasily.
The Burned Men.
Among all the Hill Tribes, they were the most feared.
Their warriors proved their strength by burning parts of their own bodies—fingers, flesh, even more vital parts. The greater the sacrifice, the higher the honor.
They were mad.
And dangerous.
"We have nothing to do with them," Dos said quickly.
But the tension in his voice betrayed him.
Gendry seized the moment.
"They've gone down from the mountains," he said calmly.
"They've taken armor. Weapons. Wealth."
"And when they return… they will not come back weak."
His words struck deep.
The tribes had always fought among themselves.
If one grew stronger, the others suffered.
That was their way.
Dos clenched his jaw.
"Which is why we need weapons," he admitted. "Armor is worth more than gold."
Gendry nodded slightly.
"You'll have them."
"But not now."
He gestured toward the mountains ahead.
"I'm heading deeper in. But tell me—if the Burned Men can descend… why not you?"
A challenge.
Clear and deliberate.
"Are you afraid?" Gendry added.
"Reduced to hiding behind rocks, waiting to rob travelers?"
"Not afraid!" Dos roared, drawing his greatsword.
The tribesmen behind him stirred, their pride ignited.
Another rider approached—a thin man with a snake tattoo winding across his face.
"The Brownsnake Tribe," Blackfish murmured quietly.
The newcomer leaned toward Dos, whispering rapidly.
Then he turned to Gendry.
"We don't want gold," he said.
"Our children are starving. Our women are starving."
"We need weapons."
He paused.
"If the Burned Men can go down the mountain… then so can we."
"If winter comes again like this… we will not survive."
Silence followed.
Then Gendry reached up and removed his cloak—a finely made garment bearing the sigil of the stag.
He tossed it forward.
It landed at Dos's feet.
"When you see this banner again," Gendry said, his voice firm, "that is when you come."
"To the Riverlands."
"To fight the lion."
Dos stared at the cloak for a long moment.
Then, slowly…
He removed his own shadowcat cloak—and threw it down in return.
An agreement.
Unspoken, but understood.
High in the mountains, the wind howled softly.
And for the first time—
The savages of the hills and the lords of the lowlands found common ground.
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