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Rebel camp.
Bronze Yohn Royce rode in at the head of a column of knights and found Eddard and Denys already talking about pulling back.
"Lord Yohn, thank the gods you're here," Denys said, hurrying forward to greet him.
Yohn was tall, lean, and hard as old iron, wearing the ancient bronze rune-armor that had protected House Royce for centuries. Lord of Runestone and head of the most powerful family in the Vale after the Arryns themselves, he had once ruled the Vale before the Andals came.
"What in the seven hells are you two boys still waiting for?" he demanded, temper already fraying.
He climbed onto a rise and pointed across the Trident at the royal host and the two dragons circling overhead.
"You've got almost nothing left," Yohn growled. "Pull back to the Bloody Gate now, or you'll be slaughtered where you stand."
Eddard and Denys exchanged uneasy glances. Facing an old warhorse like Yohn made them feel like green boys again.
"Lord Yohn, we're waiting for Lord Arryn's reply," Eddard said, forcing himself to sound steady. "If we retreat now we could be trapped and wiped out in the Mountains of the Moon."
Yohn gave the young Stark a long, unimpressed look. "Lord Eddard, if Jon Arryn had some clever way to fight dragons he would have told you already."
Eddard had no answer.
Yohn didn't waste more breath. "I don't care what Jon's reasons are—foster-son or otherwise. House Royce will not bleed for strangers. Do as you please."
He turned on his heel and pulled every Royce knight and man-at-arms—over three thousand—out of the Vale host and rode west without another word.
The moment the greatest Vale house withdrew, the rest of the Valemen started melting away. Lords quietly took their horses, wagons, and supplies and slipped after the Royces.
Within hours the eighteen-thousand-strong Vale army had shrunk to fewer than ten thousand.
The Northerners fared even worse. After the massacre at the Red Fork they were already down to six thousand. Watching the Valemen desert broke what little spirit remained. Minor lords and mountain clansmen began grabbing whatever they could carry and heading north along the Kingsroad, hoping to slip through the Neck before it was sealed.
By evening Eddard and Denys sat in a near-empty camp with the grim reports.
Barely two thousand Northmen left. Eight thousand Valemen. Most of the horses and supplies gone.
"We have to go," Eddard said at last, voice heavy. "Fall back to the Bloody Gate."
It was the second time in his life he felt the title Lord of Winterfell had become a chain around his neck. The first had been the day he learned his father and brother were dead.
Denys nodded and began organizing the remnants.
The mountain road was narrow and dangerous, with mountain clans always ready to raid. It would take time to reach the Bloody Gate.
Eddard looked over the remaining captains and made his choice. "Roose Bolton will command the rearguard. Eight hundred Northern riders and three thousand Vale horsemen. Buy us time."
Wyman Manderly had vanished. The Greatjon was dead. The Karstarks were too loyal to leave behind. Roose was young, capable, and ruthless—exactly who they needed.
Roose bowed, pale eyes unreadable. "You may rest easy, Lord Stark. I will hold them."
---
The next morning, just after first light.
"Infantry across first—form ranks on the far bank!" Randyll shouted.
The royal army began crossing the shallow ford in good order, foot soldiers securing the opposite shore before the cavalry followed.
Halfway across, a large force of rebel horsemen burst from their camp and charged, trying to disrupt the crossing.
Randyll never flinched. He signaled the front rank of spearmen to lower their points and form a steel hedge.
At that exact moment a piercing cry split the sky.
"Dracarys!"
A torrent of brilliant blue flame poured down like liquid sapphire.
Shaena rode Tessarion into her first battle.
The young blue dragon—already the size of a warhorse and growing fast—swept low, wings slicing the air, and bathed the rebel cavalry in dragonfire. The charge collapsed instantly. Horses screamed and bolted in every direction.
Tessarion's copper-flecked eyes shone with excitement. She banked hard, came around again, and unleashed another sweeping jet of blue flame.
Shaena sat rigid in the saddle, silver hair braided tight against the wind, wearing a fitted mail shirt and black riding leathers. Her face was pale but set. This was her first taste of real war, and she refused to look away.
"Not bad," Daeron murmured from Caraxes's back as he landed on the south bank.
He had let her volunteer. With the rebels already broken and terrified of dragons, this was the perfect moment for her and Tessarion to blood themselves together.
"Dracarys!" Shaena called again, leaning forward, hands locked on the saddle grips.
Tessarion answered with another precise blast of blue fire, scattering the last pockets of rebel horsemen.
Mace Tyrell rode up beside Daeron, belly bouncing, eyes gleaming with hunger for glory. "My prince, they're running! We should press the attack!"
Daeron crumpled a small note in his fist and let the pieces fall. "No rush. Let the whole army cross first."
Mathis Rowan's gaze sharpened. "My prince, the rebels are clearly buying time for their main force to reach the Bloody Gate."
Daeron watched the blue dragon wheel overhead, protecting the crossing. Everything was going exactly as planned.
"Good food is worth waiting for," he said quietly.
---
The Eyrie.
Jon Arryn sat alone by candlelight, unable to sleep, rubbing his aching temples.
The latest ravens were grim. Royce, Hunter, Templeton—every major Vale house except the Arryns themselves had pulled out.
The Vale's last real hope was geography. The Bloody Gate could hold against any army.
But not against dragons.
Jon sighed. "I thought we could drag this out until winter sealed the passes."
Now it was clear the rebellion would never last that long.
The Bloody Gate… the Bloody Gate…
He repeated the name like a prayer, but even that felt hollow.
Dragons could not melt stone, but they did not need to. They could burn the men inside through every arrow slit and murder hole.
A soft knock. Robert stepped in without waiting.
Jon frowned. "Lord Baratheon, did I teach you no manners?"
"Save the lecture, old man," Robert said. His wounds had mostly healed. "Let me go to the front with Eddard. We'll hold the Bloody Gate to the last."
"Your wounds aren't fully mended."
"They'll be fine," Robert growled. "If I wait any longer the Eyrie itself will fall. What good am I then?"
Jon Arryn stared at his foster-son, then waved a tired hand. "Go if you must."
Robert reached the door, then looked back. "Take care of yourself, old Jon."
He left without another word.
---
Mountains of the Moon.
Randyll studied the Bloody Gate with a soldier's eye and gave a low whistle of respect.
The narrow pass was flanked by two sheer cliffs. Long stone walls ran along both sides, funnelling any attacker into a killing ground barely wide enough for four riders abreast. Two watchtowers sat high on the rock, joined by a thick stone arch-bridge that formed the gate itself. Defenders could shoot from arrow slits, battlements, and the bridge itself. It was a perfect choke point.
"Lord Randyll, I have passed through the Bloody Gate many times," Lyman Darry said. "It can hold several thousand men and give the rebels their best chance."
Randyll's gaze went farther. "Once we take it, one good commander can hold the entire Vale."
Lyman looked uneasy. "Even dragons can't melt stone, my lord."
Randyll gave a thin smile. "They don't have to."
A piercing cry echoed from above.
"Dracarys!"
Caraxes swept in low and raked both watchtowers with red flame. The fire poured straight through arrow slits and murder holes, filling the towers with screams.
The Bloody Gate was built to stop armies. It had never been designed to stop dragons.
While the defenders cowered, Randyll's spearmen pushed forward and the assault began in earnest.
BOOM.
The first ram slammed into the gates. Stone dust trickled from the ancient arch.
Inside the Bloody Gate, Eddard shouted orders, trying to keep the defenders steady while arrows flew upward at the circling dragons.
Caraxes landed squarely on the stone arch-bridge, coiled like a crimson serpent, and began systematically breathing fire into every slit he could reach. The defenders could not shoot straight up.
At the same moment, Tessarion swept in from the other side, blue flame lashing across the battlements.
The royal army pressed the attack.
A single red dragon and a single blue dragon were enough to turn the strongest gate in the Vale into a death trap.
The rebels' last stand had begun.