Gendry adjusted the heavy cloak draped across his shoulders.
It was made from the thick fur of a shadowcat—jet black, streaked with faint white lines. A rare and valuable pelt, traded from the Hill Tribesmen. Not only did it provide warmth against the biting mountain winds, but it also carried a certain wild prestige, marking its wearer as someone who had walked among danger and survived.
Ahead, the lean riders of the mountain clans—the Tresdman Tribe and the Brownsnake Tribe—disappeared over a rocky ridge. Their short, bony horses moved quickly despite their frail appearance, vanishing into the rugged terrain as if they were part of it.
The path before Gendry's group was now clear.
In truth, those Hill Tribesmen posed little threat in a direct confrontation. Their armor was crude and ill-fitting, their weapons often mismatched. A disciplined cavalry charge or a coordinated volley of arrows would easily scatter them.
But war was not always about open battle.
If these tribes resorted to guerrilla tactics—ambushes, hit-and-run attacks, harassment in narrow passes—the cost of dealing with them would rise significantly.
And the Hill Tribesmen were not fools.
They knew when to fight… and when to vanish.
"This mountain road is becoming increasingly unsafe," Ser Brynden Tully muttered, his thick brows furrowing.
His sharp eyes scanned the ridgelines, ever watchful.
"Greater trouble lies ahead," Bronze Yohn Royce added gravely. "The Burned Men, the Moon People, the Black Ears… they've all followed the Imp out of the Mountains of the Moon."
He paused.
"They may not be numerous, but they are the fiercest among the clans."
His concern was not misplaced.
If these savage tribes were ever equipped with proper armor and weapons, they could become a genuine threat—not just to the Vale of Arryn, but even to the Riverlands.
"This was Lysa's doing," Brynden said with a snort.
"Before, she wouldn't even allow knights from the Vale to attend the Hand's Tourney. She insisted all forces remain here, guarding the Vale."
He shook his head.
"At the time, none of us knew what she feared."
His expression darkened.
"Now… I think I understand."
Anguy, riding nearby, raised a question.
"How many of these Hill Tribesmen are there?"
Brynden answered after a moment of thought.
"Altogether? At least three thousand warriors."
He let out a slow breath.
"They've never been a major threat individually. But after Jon Arryn's death, their raids have grown more frequent."
Jon Snow, riding silently among them, considered the number.
Three thousand.
In the North, that would not be insignificant—but manageable. The mountain clans of the North were loyal to House Stark, bound by tradition and mutual survival.
But these clans?
They were more like the Free Folk beyond the Wall.
Harsh lands bred harsh people.
"They've been a persistent problem for centuries," Brynden continued. "No Lord Arryn has ever truly dealt with them."
"We once proposed a campaign—send elite troops deep into the mountains, root them out completely…"
He gave a bitter laugh.
"But it was rejected."
The so-called "bandit suppression" plan had been opposed not only by Lysa, but even by Jon Arryn in his time.
Too risky.
Too costly.
Too uncertain.
"We still need to deal with them eventually," Bronze Yohn said.
The history of the Vale bore grim reminders of failure. More than one Lord Arryn had ventured into the mountains, only to meet their end at the hands of these elusive clans.
Gendry listened quietly.
He suspected something others had overlooked.
Hidden valleys.
Fertile pockets of land.
Places where the Hill Tribesmen could sustain themselves unseen.
As long as those hidden sanctuaries existed, the tribes would never truly disappear.
"Your Highness," Bronze Yohn said, turning to him, "do you truly intend to arm these wildlings?"
Gendry's lips curved into a faint smile.
"Let them act—but outside the mountains."
His eyes gleamed with calculation.
"Once they leave their terrain… they'll be easy to deal with."
In his mind, these tribes were little more than expendable shock troops—fierce, yes, but ultimately limited.
Yohn nodded slowly.
There was logic in that.
More importantly, they had no time to linger.
The Bloody Gate awaited.
The mountain path stretched ahead, winding toward its inevitable destination.
The Bloody Gate.
A fortress carved into the very bones of the mountain.
Beyond it lay the heart of the Vale.
As they approached, banners came into view.
The silver trout of Riverrun.
The bronze and runes of Runestone.
And among them, Gendry rode—flanked by legends.
Brynden Tully.
Bronze Yohn Royce.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
Four riders at the front.
Behind them, a force that spoke of war.
From the gate ahead, a knight rode out to meet them, bearing the falcon-and-moon banner of House Arryn.
Behind him, soldiers gathered cautiously.
Their eyes were filled with unease.
"Lord Brynden? Lord Yohn? Ser Barristan?" the young knight called out, astonished.
"I didn't expect to see you here."
Brynden smiled faintly.
"Donnel," he said warmly. "It's been a while."
Ser Donnel Waynwood rode closer.
He was young—no more than his twenties—but carried himself with earnest strength.
"I never thought I'd see you return like this, my lord," he admitted.
His gaze shifted.
"And… this is?"
"Gendry," the young man said simply, lifting his visor.
His face was sharp, wild, and unmistakably commanding.
Recognition dawned instantly.
"Gendry the Smith…" Donnel whispered.
The man who had defeated the Kingslayer.
The man who had broken the siege of Riverrun.
Donnel's heart tightened.
If Barristan Selmy stood beside him…
Then the rumors must be true.
"Lord Yohn… you've joined the war," Donnel said carefully.
Yohn met his gaze without hesitation.
"I swore allegiance to House Arryn," he said. "But I owe a greater loyalty—to the rightful king."
"As for Lysa… she is no liege of mine."
Donnel felt the weight of those words.
The Vale stood on the edge of fracture.
Brynden spoke next.
"Do you remember our suspicions?" he asked quietly. "About Jon Arryn's death?"
Donnel stiffened.
"We must go to the Eyrie," Brynden continued. "There are matters that cannot wait."
Donnel hesitated.
"I… I could send a raven first—"
"There's no time," Barristan interrupted firmly.
"Lysa Arryn is suspected of involvement in her husband's death."
Donnel's breath caught.
"That's impossible…"
"Riverrun has already severed ties," Barristan added.
Silence fell.
Donnel's world seemed to tilt.
Lysa Arryn—a murderer?
A traitor?
His thoughts spiraled.
Then—
Gendry stepped forward.
His voice rang out, calm yet absolute.
"In the name of King Robert Baratheon… I command you to open the Bloody Gate."
His presence was overwhelming.
"If you refuse…"
Barristan's voice followed like steel.
"Then you stand as a traitor."
Donnel felt trapped.
Between loyalty.
Between fear.
Between history… and the future.
At last—
He dismounted.
"…I will open the gate," he said hoarsely.
"But I ask one thing."
"Protect Lord Robert."
Gendry nodded.
"I give you my word."
The gates opened.
And the army passed through.
No blood was shed.
Yet the true battle…
Had only just begun.
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