But first, he needed to find the man with the burnt forehead.

---

The narrow streets of Gatehull twisted like a serpent’s spine, the last light of dusk painting the crumbling buildings in hues of gray and gold.

Lyonel stepped out of the tavern, his cloak pulled tight against the evening chill.

Gendry followed, his hand resting on the hilt of his hammer.

"Split up," Lyonel said, his voice low.

"You take the high road. I’ll search uproad."

Gendry nodded, his dark eyes sharp.

"And if you find him?"

"Then we’ll have our answers."

---

Lyonel moved swiftly, his boots silent on the cobblestones.

The houses here were small, their doors warped with age, their windows shuttered against the cold.

He knocked on the third door he came to—a sharp, insistent rap.

Footsteps shuffled inside.

The door creaked open, and the burnt man stood there, his face a mask of surprise.

His eyes flicked to the dagger concealed beneath Lyonel’s cloak, then back to his face.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, with a resigned sigh, he stepped aside.

"You’d best come in."

The interior of the house was sparse but warm, the hearth crackling merrily.

A sickly woman sat in a chair by the fire, her face gaunt, her fingers gently stroking the hair of a toddler girl—no older than two—who dozed in her lap.

The woman’s eyes lifted to Lyonel, wary but not afraid.

The burnt man shut the door behind him.

"My name is Whyl," he said, his voice quiet.

"That’s my wife, Yonda, and our daughter, Mara."

Lyonel’s gaze softened. "You’re a maester."

Whyl’s fingers touched the burn scar on his forehead.

"I was born among the Burned Men, one of the mountain clans. The scar is part of our ritual—proof of endurance. But I was never like the others. I wanted to learn, to read, to understand the world beyond the mountains."

He exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly.

"I fled to Oldtown in my teens. Earned an iron link. But I wanted more—I wanted to learn the higher mysteries, the magic. I... forged a Valyrian steel link."

His voice dropped.

"The Citadel doesn’t take kindly to magic arts. I was banished."

Lyonel’s brow furrowed.

"Why return here?"

Whyl’s gaze drifted to Yonda and Mara.

"Because no one would have me. Not as a maester, not with my past. On my way back to the Vale, I met Yonda. She had been a cooking maid in Lord Dayne’s castle but was on the run when I found her. She left with me."

His voice was thick with emotion.

"We’ve been here ever since."

Lyonel studied him for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he spoke.

"I know what it’s like to be an outcast. A bastard. Always on the outskirts, never truly belonging."

He stepped closer.

"I was sent here to fight the mountain clans. To crush them. But I don’t want to do that. I want to help them. To give them a way out—a chance to live as part of Westerosi society, not as raiders and thieves."

Whyl’s eyes narrowed.

"And why would you do that?"

"Because I’ve spent my life being told I don’t belong," Lyonel said, his voice rough.

"I won’t do that to others. Not if there’s another way."

Whyl was silent for a long moment, his gaze flickering between Lyonel and his family.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

"I’ll help you," he said.

"But on one condition."

"Name it."

"My wife is sick. The maesters in Gatehull can’t help her. But Maester Colemon in the Eyrie... he might."

Whyl’s voice was pleading.

"If you can get her treatment, I’ll do whatever it takes to help you with the clans."

Lyonel didn’t hesitate.

"Done."

---

Whyl turned to Yonda, his voice gentle.

"We’re going with him."

Yonda’s eyes widened, but she nodded, cradling Mara close.

Lyonel stepped back toward the door.

"Then let’s not waste time."

Outside, Gendry was waiting, his breath misting in the cold air.

"Find him?"

Lyonel nodded. "And more."

Together, the four of them—Lyonel, Gendry, Whyl, and Yonda—began the ascent through the Gates of the Moon, the path ahead lit by the pale glow of the moon.

The Eyrie awaited, and with it, the hope of a cure for Yonda—and the first steps toward a future for the mountain clans.

Lyonel’s mind was already racing ahead, the pieces of his plan beginning to fall into place.

For the first time in a long while, he felt something akin to hope.

And he would not let it slip away.

---

The Eyrie’s halls were quiet in the early hours before dawn, the only sound the distant murmur of servants and the occasional cry of a falcon circling the peaks.

Lyonel had left Whyl and Yonda in the capable hands of Maester Colemon, ensuring Yonda’s treatment had begun before slipping away with a quiet word to one of his guards:

"See them safely back to Gatehull once the maester is done."

Returning to his quarters, Lyonel stripped off his cloak and sat on the edge of his bed, the weight of his decision pressing on him.

Trust was the key.

He needed Whyl’s confidence, needed to understand the mountain clans from within.

Only then could he hope to win them over.

With a deep breath, he extinguished the candle and lay down, the image of the Mountains of the Moon looming in his mind as he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

---

At first light, Lyonel sought out Ulf, his grizzled lieutenant, in the barracks.

The man was sharpening his axe, his broad shoulders hunched over the whetstone.

"Ulf," Lyonel said, his voice low.

"I’m leaving on a minor endeavor. If I don’t return within a month, ride into the mountains with the men. Find me."

Ulf’s eyes narrowed, but he gave a curt nod.

"Aye, my lord. And if we find you in pieces?"

"Then avenge me," Lyonel replied with a grim smile.

---

By mid-morning, Lyonel was riding Ashford down the winding path toward the Bloody Gate.

The air grew colder as he descended, the scent of pine and damp earth filling his lungs.

At the gate, he dismounted, patting Ashford’s neck before sending the horse back with a stableboy.

From here, he would travel on foot.

Whyl’s house was quiet when he arrived, the door creaking open before he could knock.

The burnt man stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"You came," he said simply.

"I keep my word," Lyonel replied, stepping inside.

Whyl’s wife, Yonda, sat by the hearth, her face still pale but her eyes brighter than the night before.

"Maester Colemon says the treatment will help," she murmured, cradling little Mara in her arms.

"Thank you."

Lyonel nodded.

"I hope you’ll keep yours, Whyl."

He glanced at the man.

"I’ve left Dolm to keep watch over Yonda and Mara while we’re gone."

Whyl’s jaw tightened, but he dipped his head.

"I won’t forget this."

---

The two men set out, the high road stretching before them like a ribbon of gray stone.

They walked in silence for a league, the only sound the crunch of their boots on the gravel.

Then, Whyl turned abruptly, leading Lyonel onto a narrow shepherd’s path that snaked into the mountains.

The terrain grew steeper, the air thinner, the peaks looming like jagged teeth against the sky.

"Where are the clans?" Lyonel asked as they climbed, his breath misting in the cold.

"We’ve been walking for hours and seen no one."

Whyl didn’t look back.

"They don’t trust outsiders. They’ll be watching, though. Waiting to see if we’re worth their time."

He paused, then added, "At the Citadel, I learned something. The mountain clans... we’re descendants of the First Men. The same blood as the northerners."

Lyonel’s interest piqued.

"How so?"

"After the Battle of Seven Stars, the First Men who refused to bend the knee to Artys Arryn were driven into these mountains," Whyl explained.

"They became the clans. The Black Ears, the Burned Men, the Moon Brothers—all of us. We’ve been here ever since, forgotten by the world below."

Lyonel absorbed this, his mind racing.

"And the raids?"

"Survival," Whyl said bitterly.

"The Vale lords call us savages, but they’re the ones who pushed us here."

---

The path narrowed, the cliffs rising sharply on either side.

The wind howled through the rocks, carrying with it the scent of snow and something wilder.

Then, Lyonel saw it—a shadow moving atop a boulder ahead.

His hand twitched toward Black Oath, but he froze as the shape resolved itself into a massive black shadowcat, its fur like smoke, its eyes glowing red like embers.

Whyl stiffened beside him, his breath hitching.

"Don’t move," he whispered.

Lyonel’s fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger, but before he could draw it, a scream tore through the air.

He spun—

Whyl was running, his cloak flapping behind him as he bolted down the slope, his boots sending loose stones clattering.

The shadowcat hissed.

Lyonel barely had time to react before the beast pounced, its massive body slamming into him, knocking him to the ground.

He hit the earth hard, the wind knocked from his lungs, and then the shadowcat was on top of him, its breath hot and rank, its jaws inches from his face.

The red eyes burned into his, unblinking, as the creature’s claws pinned his arms to the ground.

Lyonel’s heart hammered against his ribs.

This was not how he had planned to meet the mountain clans.

—

The jungle was a symphony of scent and sound, a living, breathing maze of emerald and shadow.

The shadowcat moved like liquid night, its sleek, black fur drinking in the moonlight that filtered through the dense canopy above.

Every muscle coiled and released with effortless precision, its paws barely disturbing the damp earth as it sprinted, a ghost in the undergrowth.

Its golden eyes, slit and gleaming, caught the flicker of fireflies and the distant glow of bioluminescent fungi clinging to the gnarled roots of ancient trees.

The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, rotting leaves, and the sharp tang of prey—somewhere ahead, a rustle in the ferns, the faintest snap of a twig.

The shadowcat’s ears twitched, swiveling to pinpoint the sound, its whiskers quivering as it tasted the wind.

The jungle hummed around it—the chirp of unseen insects, the distant call of a nightbird, the whisper of leaves brushing against one another like secrets shared in the dark.

Ahead, the terrain rose sharply, the jungle giving way to jagged rock and the steep slopes of the mountains.

The shadowcat’s claws found purchase in the cracks of the stone, its powerful hind legs propelling it upward with a burst of speed.

The mountain air was cooler here, crisp and thin, carrying the scent of pine and the metallic bite of high-altitude wind.

The ground beneath its paws shifted from soft loam to rough, sun-warmed stone, the change in texture sending vibrations up its legs, guiding its every step.

Its breath came in silent, measured bursts as it navigated the treacherous incline, its body low to the ground, tail flicking to maintain balance.

The moon cast long, jagged shadows across the rocks, turning the landscape into a maze of light and dark.

The shadowcat’s eyes adjusted instantly, its night vision piercing the gloom, every detail sharp—the glint of mica in the stone, the way the wind bent the grass at the edge of a cliff, the distant shimmer of a mountain stream cutting through the valley below.

A sudden movement.

The shadowcat froze, its body tensing.

A serpent, its scales iridescent in the moonlight, slithered across its path, disappearing into a crevice.

The cat’s nostrils flared, but it didn’t pause. Prey waited beyond the ridge, and the hunt was everything.

It reached the summit in a final, powerful leap, landing soundlessly on a flat outcrop of stone.

Below, the jungle stretched out like an endless sea of green, the mountains rising like the spines of ancient beasts.

The shadowcat crouched, its haunches bunching, ready to spring into the darkness once more.

The night was its kingdom, and it ruled it with silent, deadly grace.

And then he saw the humans, gathered together around the fire.

---

Lyonel groaned as consciousness seeped back into him, his body aching as if he’d been trampled by a horse.

His fingers twitched, pressing against the rough fabric of his tunic—sticky with dried blood.

He sat up slowly, wincing as pain lanced through his chest.

Red bite and claw marks marred his skin, the edges raw and angry.

His head throbbed, and the taste of iron lingered in his mouth.

Blinking against the dim light, he took in his surroundings.

He was in a rudimentary camp, a cluster of crude tents and lean-tos nestled between jagged rocks.

The air smelled of smoke, damp earth, and something gamey—roasting meat, perhaps.

A fire crackled nearby, casting flickering shadows on the faces of the mountain clansmen moving about.

Their clothing was a mix of furs and patched leather, their eyes sharp and wary as they glanced his way.

Lyonel pushed himself to his feet, his legs unsteady.

He stumbled toward the nearest figure—a woman with fiery red hair and green eyes, her build lean but strong.

She turned at his approach, her expression unreadable.

"I’m Lyonel Baratheon," he said, his voice rough.

"Where am I? Which clan is this?"

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she raised a hand and called out in a tongue Lyonel didn’t understand.

Within moments, half a dozen clansmen surrounded him, their grips rough as they seized his arms.

They **** him to his knees, thick ropes biting into his wrists as they bound him to a boulder, the stone cold and unyielding against his back.

Lyonel exhaled sharply, his mind racing.

Reason.

Calm.

Those were his only weapons now.

He wasn’t going to escape by ****—not yet.

---

Hours passed.

The camp stirred with activity—men sharpening blades, women tending to the fire, children darting between the tents.

No one spoke to him.

No one even looked at him for long.

Then, without warning, the camp began to decamp.

Tents were struck, horses saddled, and the clansmen mounted up, their faces grim.

Lyonel was untied from the boulder, but his wrists remained bound.

A rope was looped around his neck, and with a sharp tug, he was yanked forward, **** to walk in the center of the column like a prisoner of war.

The red-haired woman walked beside him, her steps sure and silent. Lyonel tried again.

"What’s your name?"

She ignored him.

"I don’t mean you harm," he pressed, keeping his voice low, non-threatening.

"I was looking for the mountain clans. I wanted to talk."

Still, she said nothing.

"Please," he said, frustration creeping into his tone.

"I just want to know where you’re taking me."

Finally, she glanced at him, her green eyes flickering with something—annoyance, maybe, or curiosity.

"Fygla," she muttered.

Lyonel’s breath caught.

"Fygla. I’m Lyonel. Which clan are you with?"

"Sons of the Tree," she replied, her voice gruff.

"And where are we going?"

She hesitated, then spat out two words:

"Gunhold. Ohald Oheld."

Lyonel frowned.

The names meant nothing to him, but he nodded as if he understood.

"And my dagger—Black Oath. Do you know where it is?"

"With Dagnar," she said shortly, her gaze flicking ahead.

Lyonel swallowed hard.

Dagnar.

The clan leader, then.

That was something.

---

The march continued, the terrain growing steeper, the air thinner.

The column wound through narrow passes and across precarious ledges, the Eyrie looming in the distance like a ghostly sentinel.

As night fell, they reached a small clearing on the edge of a cliff.

Below, the torches of the Eyrie twinkled like stars, but they were far below, the camp perched at a lower elevation than the fortress.

Lyonel’s legs burned with exhaustion, his throat parched.

He sank to the ground as the clansmen set up camp, his mind racing.

Gunhold.

Ohald Oheld.

Whatever—or whoever—they were, he’d find out soon.

For now, he had **** but to comply.

And wait.

---

The fires of the camp burned low, casting long, dancing shadows across the rugged faces of the gathered clansmen.

Lyonel was dragged to the center of the clearing, his wrists still bound as he was **** to his knees before a massive boulder, its surface worn smooth by time and elements.

The air hummed with anticipation, the murmurs of the clansmen fading into an eerie silence as the hoofbeats of approaching riders echoed through the mountains.

One by one, groups of warriors arrived—Milk Snakes, their tattoos coiling like serpents up their arms; Sons of the Mist, their cloaks damp with the chill of the high peaks; Painted Dogs, their faces streaked with ochre and ash; and the Moon Brothers, their silver adornments glinting in the firelight.

They dismounted, their expressions grim, their eyes fixed on Lyonel.

Then, he came.

A rugged, grey-bearded man strode into the center of the camp, his presence commanding instant silence.

Four other greybeards followed, their faces lined with years of hardship and wisdom.

They raised their hands, and the chatter of the camp died away.

Lyonel watched, his pulse steady.

These were the leaders.

The grey-bearded man stepped forward, his voice deep and resonant, speaking in the Common Tongue.

"Tonight may be the day of reckoning for the mountain clans," he declared, his gaze sweeping over the gathered warriors before settling on Lyonel.

"The Sons of the Tree are joined by the Milk Snakes, the Sons of the Mist, the Painted Dogs, and the Moon Brothers and others would be joining soon."

His voice carried like thunder.

"The ceremony of Gunhold shall now begin—if this stranger is the one prophesied. The Ohald Oheld."

---