Chapter 103 100

The Eyrie.

To the rest of the world it was simply another "impregnable" castle, but to the Arryns it was home, the guarantor of stability and safety. The castle was built from pale white stone that lent a flawless, clean look to its sheer walls and towers. By the standards of the great houses, the Eyrie was small: seven slender towers huddled close together like arrows in a quiver, set upon the shoulder of an enormous mountain. To reach the castle, any attacker would first have to overcome the Bloody Gate, which guards the main road, then the castle of the Gates of the Moon, at the foot of the Giant's Lance. From here began the ascent up steps cut directly into the mountain's face. The stair was too steep and too narrow for horses, so the climb was made on mules. The journey from the base of the peak to the Eyrie took a full day. Three castles guarded the stone path: Stone, Snow, and Sky, from each of which the narrow way could be held without difficulty, for instance by rolling boulders down onto the heads of anyone foolish enough to try forcing it.

They came out to meet me at Stone, it being the most accessible. At the head of the procession stood a man of considerable bulk, with a broad chest and a bull's neck, wearing a gray beard. No need to think twice. Ser Nestor Royce, head of his branch of House Royce, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon. When I dismounted, the entire courtyard went to its knees.

"My lord Arryn, the Eyrie is yours." His voice carried a slight rasp that came with age.

"Rise, Ser Nestor. I am well pleased with your service to House Arryn." My announcement brought visible relief to those gathered around us. "We have much to discuss," I added more quietly, for him alone.

...

My companions were curious about how Nestor Royce had managed to take a castle that had until then been considered impregnable. Out of their old and frankly dim habit, they assumed I had devised the plan and Nestor had simply carried it out. I had to disappoint them. The castle fell through simple bribery. He had put the word to the castle's servants that those who opened the gates would be rewarded handsomely by Lord Arryn, while those who refused would be hanged. He was not wrong in his reckoning. I had in fact been planning to throw nearly every last inhabitant of the castle through the Moon Door. This was not driven by bloodlust, well, not entirely, but by revenge. When the Rotten Fish had seized the Eyrie, all the servants loyal to me had been killed. Only her supporters and her sycophants remained. Those same people opened the gates, collected their well-earned coin, and were released. No man who betrays twice deserves any trust.

The most gratifying moment, however, was my meeting with Lysa Tully. The Rotten Trout. The whole continent knew of my deep and abiding love for my dear stepmother, and Nestor was no exception, yet he had not risked curtailing any of her privileges. In Westeros, noble prisoners were treated more as honored hostages than anything else. There were many reasons for that custom, but this is not the moment to dwell on them. All these days the Trout had been under house arrest, and in her dim head she had apparently concluded that I would continue to coddle her.

When she entered the hall, I was struck. The Fish had grown even uglier than before, and the smell coming off her was stronger than ever, even perfume could not overcome it. But what truly set me off was her expression. It was full of arrogance, contempt, and hatred. I understood that she knew about my arrangement with Stannis and had worked out that her life was not in danger, but that gave her no license to conduct herself this way.

The moment I had almost composed myself, she spat at me. SHE SPAT AT ME. The next instant the Fish was on the floor from the force of my blow. The wet crunch of my fist meeting her face brought me a satisfaction that defied comparison. Hundreds of women and the finest wine had never given me SUCH pleasure as striking the most despised person alive. For a moment, the thought lodged itself in my mind to discard the agreement with Stannis entirely and have her put to the question in the dungeons of the Eyrie. If a single punch had brought me something close to ecstasy, what would the removal of limbs, the flaying, the breaking of the mind produce? But the moment of weakness passed within the minute.

She was extremely fortunate that I had been badly weakened by my wounds and was strained from overuse of magic. A blow at my full strength would have killed her outright. As it was, she simply lost consciousness. She was carried off to the maester to ensure there was no risk of her dying on me. I gave Nestor a nod confirming that he and his men were pardoned and would face no consequences of any kind, for now. I had no particular desire to see my brother just then.

Several hours later I was walking the marble corridors of the Eyrie with a feeling I could only call nostalgia. How much had happened to me within these walls, more than anyone could count. There had been good, and there had been bad. It did not matter. This place was where my story had been written, the only one I had. The great hall received me in all its austere splendor, a solemn chamber adorned with a carpet of blue silk, its walls framed by slender carved columns. Everything was white marble threaded with veins of pale blue. Narrow arched windows ran along the walls, and between them burned more than twenty torches set in iron and silver sconces. At the center stood my beloved Moon Door. The castle had no executioner. Those condemned were simply cast through it and fell to their deaths on the rocks below. I had missed it.

But something else held my attention entirely. At the far end of the chamber stood the Arryn throne, carved from heartwood. The throne of my father, my grandfather, and all the hundreds of generations of the family before them. I sat down in it and let out a long, tired breath, and a single thought drifted through my mind:

The Vale is mine.

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