Lyonel holds a council with the clan leaders.

---

The first light of dawn crept through the cracks of the tent, casting pale golden streaks across Lyonel’s bare chest.

He groaned as he stirred, his groin and back aching from the previous night’s relentless fucking.

The bearskin beneath him was still warm, the scent of sex and sweat thick in the air.

The ten women lay scattered around him, their bodies tangled in the furs, their breath slow and even in sleep.

Lyonel pushed himself up, wincing as his muscles protested.

He dressed quickly, his mind already racing with the weight of what came next.

---

Stepping out of the tent, he found Dagnar and the other clan leaders gathered around the central fire, their voices hushed but urgent.

The moment they saw him, their eyes lit up with something akin to reverence.

"Ohald Oheld," Dagnar said, his voice thick with emotion as he dropped to one knee.

The other leaders followed, their heads bowed in submission.

"The prophecy has been fulfilled. The clans are yours to command."

Lyonel exhaled sharply, stepping forward.

He gripped Dagnar’s shoulder, pulling him up, then did the same for the others.

"I am no god," he said, his voice firm.

"And I don’t want blind faith. I want change."

The leaders frowned, their expressions shifting from awe to confusion.

"I intend to bring the mountain clans back into civilized society," Lyonel declared, his gaze sweeping over them.

"To establish you within the feudal order of Westeros—not as raiders, but as lords and landholders."

A murmur rippled through the group.

Some of the leaders bristled, their hands twitching toward their weapons.

"The Arryns will never accept us!" snapped the leader of the Black Ears, his scarred face twisting in anger.

"They’ve hunted us for centuries!"

"They fear what they don’t understand," Lyonel countered.

"But I know how to make them listen."

"And if they don’t?" growled the Burned Man’s leader, his milky eye glinting in the firelight.

"Then we make them," Lyonel said, his voice low and dangerous.

"But not through raids and bloodshed. Through alliances. Through strength."

The leaders exchanged glances, some nodding reluctantly, others still skeptical.

"Sit," Lyonel ordered, gesturing to the rough-hewn logs around the fire.

"We talk. Now."

---

As the leaders settled, Lyonel studied their faces, noting the unspoken tension.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice cutting through the silence.

"What are your ambitions?"

The Black Ears leader leaned forward, his voice gruff.

"We want to stay in the mountains. This is our home. Our ancestors’ land."

The leader of the Milk Snakes scoffed.

"And starve like we always have? The mountains give us nothing but harsh winters and thin game."

He slammed his fist on his knee.

"We want land. Plains. Fertile soil where we can grow crops and raise livestock."

Lyonel’s eyes narrowed.

"So there are two factions."

"Aye," Dagnar admitted, rubbing his beard.

"The Black Ears, Burned Men, Howlers, Stone Crows, Moon Brothers, Painted Dogs, and Redsmiths—they want to keep the old ways. The Milk Snakes, Sons of the Tree, and Sons of the Mist… we want more."

Lyonel leaned back, his mind racing.

"Then we compromise."

"How?" the Howler leader snarled, his yellowed teeth bared.

"The clans that wish to stay in the mountains will," Lyonel said.

"But you will end the raids. You will hold lands as proper recognized lords. You will trade with the Vale instead. Hunt, mine, craft—but no more stealing."

The Black Ears leader crossed his arms.

"And if we refuse?"

"Then you starve," Lyonel said coldly.

"Because the Arryns will no longer tolerate your raids."

The Milk Snakes leader grinned.

"And those of us who want land?"

"Will get it," Lyonel replied.

A chorus of protests erupted.

"The Arryns will never give us land!"

"They’ll slaughter us before they share their valleys!"

Lyonel slammed his fist on the log.

"Then you die as raiders!"

His voice boomed, silencing them.

"Or you live as lords."

The fire crackled, the tension thick enough to cut.

---

"You will give up the old rituals," Lyonel said, his gaze unyielding.

"No more burning children’s foreheads. No more sacrifices to the mountain spirits. But you will keep the faith of the Old Gods—the gods of the First Men, the gods of your ancestors."

The Burned Man’s leader snarled.

"You ask us to abandon our traditions!"

"I ask you to survive," Lyonel shot back.

"The Old Gods do not demand pain. They demand respect. Honor. Strength."

He stood, his voice ringing with authority.

"You are descendants of the First Men. Warriors. Not savages."

The leaders fell silent, their eyes locked on him.

"I will speak to the Arryns," Lyonel continued.

"I will secure you land—for those who want it. And for those who stay in the mountains, I will ensure you have trade, protection, and peace."

The Sons of the Tree leader stood, his voice steady.

"And if they refuse?"

Lyonel’s smile was cold.

"Then we take what is ours."

He paused, letting the words sink in.

"But we do it smart. Not as raiders. As conquerors."

The leaders exchanged glances, the weight of his words settling over them.

"You ask much of us, Ohald Oheld," Dagnar said slowly.

"I offer you everything," Lyonel replied.

"A future. A legacy."

The Black Ears leader grunted, but he nodded.

"We will consider it."

"Consider fast," Lyonel said.

"Because the Arryns won’t wait forever."

The fire burned between them, the air thick with possibility.

For the first time in centuries, the mountain clans had a choice.

And Lyonel intended to make sure they chose wisely.

---

The morning of the day after the Gunhold, Lyonel awoke to the soft, rhythmic breathing of the shadowcat—Darkheart, as he had begun to call him—curled against his side.

The beast’s black fur was warm, his red eyes slitted in sleep, his chest rising and falling with the deep, steady rhythm of a creature at peace.

Lyonel stroked the fur behind Darkheart’s ears, feeling the rumble of a purr vibrate through the beast’s massive frame.

"You’re stuck with me now, aren’t you?" Lyonel murmured, his voice rough from sleep.

Darkheart’s eyes flickered open, their glow dim in the early morning light.

The shadowcat stretched, his claws flexing against the furs before he nuzzled against Lyonel’s hand, his muzzle pressing into his palm. Lyonel smiled, scratching beneath the beast’s chin.

"Good. Because I could use a friend like you."

As he stepped out of the tent, Darkheart followed, his movements silent as a ghost.

The clansmen watched with awe and wariness, their eyes tracking the beast as he padded beside Lyonel.

The warriors nodded, some touching their chests in a gesture of respect.

Darkheart ignored them, his focus solely on Lyonel.

---

Lyonel spent the second day exploring the higher reaches of the mountains, Darkheart always at his side.

The shadowcat moved with effortless grace, his paws barely making a sound as he navigated the rocky terrain.

When Lyonel paused to study a narrow pass, Darkheart brushed against his leg, his tail flicking as if urging him forward.

"You know these mountains better than I do," Lyonel said, crouching beside the beast.

"Show me."

Darkheart tilted his head, then turned and began climbing, his muscles rippling beneath his fur.

Lyonel followed, his hand resting on the scruff of the shadowcat’s neck.

They ascended a hidden path, the wind howling around them, until they reached a ledge overlooking a valley rich with game and plants of Aspen.

Lyonel had found earlier that he too had been cured from the previous attack by Darkheart using these very plants of Aspen.

The yellow aspen jutted out of thick undergrowth, as if standing out of its own volition.

"Smart beast," Lyonel murmured, scratching behind Darkheart’s ears.

The shadowcat leaned into the touch, his eyes half-lidded in contentment.

That night, as Lyonel sat by the fire, planning with the clan leaders, Darkheart curled around his feet, his head resting on Lyonel’s boot.

The warmth of the beast was comforting, a silent reminder that he was no longer alone.

---

By the third day, Darkheart no longer just followed—he anticipated.

When Lyonel reached for his dagger, the shadowcat positioned himself at his side, his body tense and ready.

When Lyonel spoke with the clan leaders, Darkheart lay beside him, his presence a silent but powerful statement of loyalty.

Lyonel found himself talking to the beast, sharing his thoughts as if Darkheart could understand.

"They’re stubborn, these clans," he muttered one evening, stroking the shadowcat’s fur.

"But they’ll listen. They have to."

Darkheart chuffed, as if in agreement, and nuzzled against Lyonel’s hand.

That night, as Lyonel slept, Darkheart pressed his body against his, his purr a low, soothing vibration.

Lyonel woke once, his hand instinctively resting on the beast’s side, and fell back asleep with a smile.

---

On the fourth day, Lyonel decided to test the depth of their bond.

He led Darkheart to a narrow ridge, where the wind was strong and the drop sheer.

Lyonel crouched, looking over the edge, and gestured for Darkheart to join him.

The shadowcat hesitated, his ears twitching as he studied the precarious footing.

But when Lyonel held out his hand, Darkheart stepped forward, trusting him completely.

"That’s it," Lyonel murmured, scratching the beast’s neck.

"I won’t let you fall."

Darkheart leaned into him, his trust absolute.

---

Each night, as Lyonel lay on the furs, planning and scheming, Darkheart was there—curled against his side, his warmth a comfort in the cold mountain air.

The shadowcat slept with one paw draped over Lyonel’s leg, as if claiming him.

"You’re a better companion than most men I’ve known," Lyonel admitted one night, stroking the beast’s fur.

Darkheart chuffed, his tail thumping softly against the furs.

---

By the end of the fourth day, the bond between them was unbreakable.

Darkheart no longer just followed—he guarded.

When Lyonel walked through the camp, the shadowcat padded beside him, his presence a deterrent to any who might challenge him.

When Lyonel spoke, Darkheart sat at his feet, his red eyes watching the clansmen with quiet intensity.

"You’re more than a beast," Lyonel murmured, scratching behind Darkheart’s ears as they stood on a ridge, overlooking the valley below.

"You’re a brother."

Darkheart leaned against him, his purr a deep, rumbling sound of contentment.

Lyonel smiled, ruffling the fur on the shadowcat’s neck.

"Together, we’ll change this place."

And for the first time in a long time, he believed it.

---

The fifth morning dawned with a cold, crisp clarity, the mountain air sharp enough to bite.

Lyonel stood outside his tent, Darkheart pressed against his leg, when the clan leaders approached as a united front.

Dagnar, his grey beard braided with bone charms, stepped forward, his expression grave but resolute.

"Ohald Oheld," he said, his voice carrying the weight of their decision.

"We have spoken. We have argued. And we have agreed."

Lyonel crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping over the gathered leaders.

"And?"

"We will integrate into Westeros," Dagnar declared.

"But not as vassals to the Arryns."

His eyes burned with conviction.

"We will bend the knee to you, and you alone. Our houses will be established under your banner."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the clan leaders.

The Black Ears chieftain, his face scarred from ritual burns, nodded.

"We trust no one else. You have proven yourself."

“You are Ohald Oheld. The prophecy says you will unite us. We believe in that."

Lyonel looked at them—hardened warriors, men who had spent lifetimes fighting, surviving, raiding.

And now, they were placing their futures in his hands.

"I will speak to Lady Arryn," he said, his voice firm.

"I will secure your place in the Vale."

---