Expedition

At the edge of our journey through the Riverlands, we came upon an inn known as the Two Crowns. It stood as a junction, offering travelers the choice of three distinct paths: 

One along the Kingsroad that led south to King's Landing or stretched northward past Winterfell to The Wall.

Or west along the River Road, spanning the Riverlands and into the Westerlands, all the way to Lannisport. 

Finally, the eastern route, known as the High Road, guided travelers through the famed Bloody Gate to the Vale of Arryn.

In the days of the old King Jaehaerys, he and his lady wife frequented this inn during their travels, leading to its christening as the 'Two Crowns' in their honor. It was not uncommon for the small folk, however, to simply refer to it as Crossroads Inn.

It was a jolly place. Many travelers from all walks of life would take advantage of their dizzying mead and their roast chicken.

"I think I'll take two chickens!" declared Captain Zane, as grease ran down his chin.

Hedge knights and peasants. Septons on pilgrimage. Vagabonds with wanderlust. Singers and mummers. It offered great respite to any journeyman, and I took full advantage of the opportunity to rub shoulders with the people of Westeros. Those who dare travel our land.

During our stay, we turned the Two Crowns into a military compound. No one was typically allowed in our camp, but since we encamped around the inn, we had to make exceptions. This gave the troops experience with roadblocks, background checks, and general tasks associated with 'military police.'

When the time came for us to pack up and move on, we set our sights east. It did not take long for our path to incline itself upwards in steepness.

Next stop: The Vale of Arryn.

The winding eastern path, commonly known as the High Road or the Eastern Road, marks the only passage through the Mountains of the Moon.

As we ventured along this route, the terrain proved challenging.

Steep and rugged was our path. We were fortunate it was not blocked by snow, as it oft times is during colder days.

We traversed foothills and forests until we reached the mountain expanse of the Vale. Amongst these foothills were towers of unmortared stone manned by small contingents of knights. 

The mountainous path proved to be a treacherous one as it dwindled into a stony track. Loose footing gave way to rock slides. When some pack animals fell into deep chasms, I ordered the men to take extra caution.

We managed to get through without any human casualties. Sadly, the same could not be said about the camp followers. 

At some point Deadeye Ronny came to the part of our formation where myself, Sari Sicai, and Hayden Cuckright marched in idle chatter.

Ronny had an arrow notched ready to fire as he darted his eyes around.

"Prince Rhaenar, a word, if you please."

"What troubles you, Ronny?"

"I must report. There are eyes watching us from the mountains. And no, they aren't shadowcats."

Sari scoffed, "Tell us something we don't know."

"Easy, Sari," I scolded, "We must never begrudge a man for giving a report."

Ronny raised an impressed brow, "So you know?"

I nodded, "Yes. They've been following us for a while now. Clansmen, no doubt. Interested in our advance."

Hayden Cuckright shuddered, "Damned savages."

To which I wagged a finger, "They are simply a different culture, no more violent than the rest of us, as far as our history is concerned."

"What do you know about them?" asked Ronny, "Pardon my asking."

I took a great breath and savored the thinning, mountain air. "The Mountain Clans, or hill tribes, depending on who you ask, descend from the First Men, who once inhabited Westeros before the Andal invasion, where they were defeated by superior technology and military might.

"Theirs is a story of a displaced people. The Vale was their home until they were driven into the mountains. Now, the hill tribes are considered nothing more than savage monkeys. And I suppose that's not without good reason.

"You see, when the Andals came to Westeros, they did so by landing on the Vale. Thus, the hill tribes were the first to resist these newcomers. Many were defeated, absorbed, and subjugated. 

"But there were some who rejected the authority of these new rulers. They refused the newly formed state that ruled from the Eyrie and fled to the Mountains of the Moon. For all intents and purposes, the hill tribes are independent from the kingdoms. 

"There is sparse detail on the mountain clans. As you might imagine, these people won't accept a maester living among them to write about their ways. There is much we don't know.

"But what we do know is rather interesting. These people have opted for a different governing style than our realm. Egalitarian in nature, it's said they nurture a culture of inclusiveness. All voices are heard in their councils, regardless of age, status, or gender."

Ronny smirked, "Sounds like our war councils."

"Indeed. But we don't have infighting like they do. Clan will war against clan. And when they aren't busy fighting each other, they frequently raid the lowlands, where people of the Vale risk plunder and rape. Women are dragged away, men killed.

"In this manner they are much alike the wildlings. They too like to steal women, if the writings are true. And like the wildlings, their women join in on the fighting. 

"The clans haven't posed a serious threat to the Vale in centuries beyond their raids. No longer do armies march on mass. Now they are a scattered people content with their petty operations and stories of their gloried past.

"What interests me most are their steeds: small horses well suited to the mountain paths. Nimble and strong. In this way, the hill tribes are similar to the northern mountain clans with their steppe horses and culture rooted strongly in the ways of the First Men.

"But unlike the North, these hill tribes have yet to be subjugated, nor find respectful understanding with potential overlords like they do with the Starks.

"Our numbers are large enough to guarantee we make it through without molestation. But that doesn't mean we should not exercise caution. Tell the men to keep their eyes peeled."

Ronny pondered my words for a moment and said, "As you command, my Prince," before he retired back into formation.

Sari rolled his eyes, "If the bastards are such a problem, why haven't they been crushed?"

"A fair question," I said, "The Mountains of the Moon remain a mystery to us. The clans know where to go and how to avoid eradication. Quite simply, the landscape is too troublesome, even for the excellently trained Knights of the Vale, who are adept at riding on hillsides."

It was at that moment that we came upon the Bloody Gate. 

Two extensive parapets were hewn into the rugged stone of the Mountains of the Moon. These ancient fortifications oversaw the high road, which now was so constricted it only permitted the passage of four riders abreast. 

Paired watchtowers on each side of the mountains that hugged the passage stood vigil, connected by a covered bridge fashioned from gray stone, its arch looming over the thoroughfare. 

The defenders stationed within these structures aimed through arrow slits along the towers, bridge, and battlements, the perfect strategic vantage points for firing upon any potential threats.

On our arrival, we were greeted by the Knight of the Gate, a position charged with the defense of the Vale's mighty choke point that has repelled countless invaders, be they kingdoms or hill tribes. 

I almost had to pinch myself when the Knight of the Gate peeked his head over the battlements and asked those famous words:

"Who would pass the Bloody Gate?"

"Tis' I, Prince Rhaenar."

"Ah, my Prince! We've been expecting you."

I chuckled, "In good spirits, I hope."

The men guarding the Bloody Gate insisted on us taking a meal break, and we obliged — stewed mutton and candied plums before resuming our march.

The Giant's Lance stood tall, the loftiest peak in the Mountains of the Moon, casting its shadow even higher than the Eyrie itself.

Legends claimed that the Lance reached a staggering height of three and a half miles. To its left, Alyssa's Tears cascaded down gracefully, a waterfall with no sympathy amidst its rugged surroundings.

This waterfall carried a melancholic tale. Named after Alyssa Arryn, the ancient matriarch of House Arryn who witnessed her family's murder without shedding a tear. 

Stories told of the waterfall's height being so great that the water, traversing the frigid air, never reached the ground, not a single droplet. 

Instead, it transformed into ethereal mist, merging seamlessly with the gray sky, disappearing into the heavens.

Our journey led us past the formidable Bloody Gate, that gateway to the Vale, unveiling a descent of two miles along a winding path that revealed the breathtaking panorama of the Vale valleys. 

As we descended, the Gates of the Moon and the Eyrie came into view, nestled close to the towering Giant's Lance.

We ventured further into the Vale proper, encountering the first of three waycastles guarding the winding pass up to the Eyrie.

Stone, they called it. Nestled at the mountain's base and enveloped by the surrounding forest, the site was splotched with many noble colors.

Tents and banners dotted the landscape, almost suggesting a carefully orchestrated gathering in expectation of my arrival.

House Melcom and Moore, Redfort and Ruthermont, and others, each bearing ancient lineage - whether from the First Men or of Andal descent.

'Show time', I thought, as I mounted my noble steed.

Ser Steffon and Lorent flanked by either side like ghostly guardians, their snowy cloaks of the Kingsguard flapped majestically as we trotted. 

My suspicions solidified as the gates of Stone opened, revealing a contingent of twenty riders.

Among them, a rider carried a familiar banner; black iron studs on bronze, with First Men runes along its borders.

Leading them, a fierce beauty with dark hair and clad in rune armor.

"Prince Rhaenar," she spoke, her flushed cheeks racing my heart. 

Dismounting as I did, we moved toward each other instinctively, our heads almost acting as if drawn together by an invisible force.

"Aunt Rhea," I greeted, wrapping my arms around her tightly, though her armored bodice deprived me of clutching her waist. She giggled at my silent curses as if she knew their purpose.

Yet, I pressed closer, nuzzling into her neck, feeling her shudder at my warm breath, and my lips almost nipped into flesh.

"You haven't aged a day!"