Chapter 208

The Vale. Gates of the Moon. 300 AC.

Horton Redfort.

Beneath the high vaults of the Gates of the Moon's hall hung a haze of smoke, thick with the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread. The white stone walls were hung with banners: white, blue, and bronze. The Falcon banner of House Arryn flew proudly above the high table, and beside it hung the banners of every house that had come for the feast. The whole of the Vale's nobility had gathered to celebrate a victory unseen since the fall of the Dragons. By all accounts, the "Ravaging of the Riverlands" rivaled Robert Baratheon's Rebellion in scale, but where the latter had cost the Vale tens of thousands of its sons and drained its coffers dry, the former carried none of those burdens. The Falcon's Eye had chosen his moment well, and with minimal losses had claimed the wealth of two entire regions: the Westerlands and the Riverlands.

Across the centuries, precious few kings could claim such a feat, and this was true not only of the Arryns, but of every king Westeros had ever known. It was history in the making, the kind men would sing of for generations. And those gathered here, weak in the knees with pride, relished being part of that history, relished knowing their grandchildren's grandchildren would speak of their ancestors' glorious deeds. Glory was one of the cornerstones by which the great majority of Westerosi nobility measured their lives. Good knights and lords had done far worse in pursuit of it.

Strumming his harp, the singer worked his way through the verses of a freshly composed ballad recounting the deeds of the Vale's knights in the Riverlands, but by the sixth repetition, no one was listening anymore. The song was all but swallowed by the chatter of hundreds of drunken guests and the clatter of pewter plates and cups.

It was the third hour of the welcoming feast held in honor of the opening of the "Tourney of Victory." Ironic, how one amusement spawns several more. The tourney itself had been arranged to celebrate the successful campaign, and the feast in turn to mark the tourney. Yet Horton himself paid little attention to the general merriment. Not because he was a man well advanced in years, and not from any weariness with feasts, of which he had seen more than his share in his long life. No, the truth was simpler than that: Lord Redfort knew this feast would end in a manner unpleasant for everyone involved.

His late grandfather, Lord Uthor Redfort, may the Seven receive his soul, used to say: "You either win or you lose, there is no third option." Time had proven his wisdom. Horton had witnessed many conflicts of every stripe, but in essence they all resolved the same way: someone won, and someone lost. Whatever catastrophic consequences the victors might suffer, a win was still a win. The Dance of the Dragons illustrated that wisdom well enough. Two factions, the Blacks and the Greens, had torn at each other, and in the course of that war the Targaryens lost nearly all of their older generation, along with the dragons that had granted them limitless power, while the surviving children fell for years under the sway of outsiders. A self-destructive outcome, and yet highborn men still reckoned the Blacks the victors in the end.

So it was now. House Arryn and House Redfort had been bound close for generations. When Lysa Tully raised her rebellion, Horton, true to his oaths, had stood at the side of his rightful liege lord. Together they had fought shoulder to shoulder and brought an end to the unrest in their lands. Axel Arryn became the undisputed Lord of the Vale, and House Redfort received the privileges it had rightly earned. Everyone had been satisfied, everything had fallen into place. When the banners were called from the Eyrie, the Redforts had been among the first to answer their liege's summons, and had discharged their duty with honor.

It galled Horton to see how thoroughly Arryn had lost himself in his own imagined might. His actions were inviting a new conflict within the Vale. Should internal strife break out, it would eclipse every military and political achievement they had won. All those victories, those thousands of lives, those years of labor, would go up in smoke. Instead of standing as the region with the strongest army and the richest resources in the Seven Kingdoms, the Vale would sink to the level of the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands.

When the singer finished his song, the master of the castle sent him away. Lord Arryn looked to Horton with a questioning expression. Redfort understood the silent question and gave his liege lord a firm nod, receiving the same gesture in return. A moment later the hall rang with the heavy thud of a goblet striking the table. The nearest rows of guests turned to watch the host of the feast with interest, and the noise around them began to die down.

"A moment of your attention, if you please!" Now it was Arryn's booming voice that drew every eye. "I raise this cup to the knights of the Vale, the strongest warriors in all the known world!"

"AYE!!!"

"ARRYN! ARRYN! ARRYN!!!"

"TO THE VALE AND ITS KNIGHTS!!!"

The hall drowned in cheers. Paradoxically, despite his rather contentious reputation, the Falcon's Eye was well loved in the Vale. A formidable warrior, an excellent commander, a capable statesman; he hunted down savages without mercy, won his wars, brought home rich plunder, and kept the region stable. His one flaw was a cruelty that sometimes ran to excess and put people off, but then, no one is perfect.