And silence followed.

---

Shella’s body hit the stone floor with a sickening thud, her limbs sprawled unnaturally, her chestnut eyes already glazing over as life slipped away.

The pool of blood beneath her spread like a cursed tide, soaking into the cracks between the stones.

Oswell’s wails tore through the chamber, his tiny body trembling, his small hands smeared with her blood.

Lyonel’s world shattered.

---

A roar tore from his throat, raw and primal, as he lunged at Ser Amory.

His fingers locked around the knight’s throat, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing.

Amory’s face turned purple, his feet kicking wildly, but Lyonel’s grip was iron.

"You monster," he snarled, his voice a guttural growl.

"You filth."

No one dared to stop him.

The Lannister men-at-arms who had filled the room moments before were gone— and the rest were in the riverlands, Ser Gregor Clegane having dragged them away, their raiding party burning Riverlands and possibly sacking Darry.

Only the dead and the living remained: Lyonel’s men, the Whent household guards, and the broken body of the woman he had loved.

Lyonel dragged Amory through the halls, the knight’s boots scraping against the stone, his breath a ragged, **** gasp.

The courtyard of Harrenhal loomed ahead, the cold night air biting at Lyonel’s skin.

Torches flickered in the wind, casting long, dancing shadows as Lyonel hauled Amory into the center of the open space.

"People of Harrenhal!" Lyonel’s voice boomed, carrying across the courtyard like the toll of a **** knell.

"Gather!"

Men emerged from the shadows—his own soldiers, their faces grim, their weapons still drawn.

The Whent men-at-arms, their surcoats bearing the black bat of their house, joined them, their expressions a mix of grief and fury.

Within moments, a crowd of a hundred strong encircled the courtyard, their breath misting in the cold air.

Lyonel hurled Amory to the ground before the iron block—the same block used for butchering meat, its surface stained dark with old blood.

The knight gasped, his hands clawing at his throat as he struggled to breathe.

"This man," Lyonel snarled, his voice trembling with barely contained rage, "murdered Lady Shella Whent. He butchered her in cold blood, in front of her son. In front of me."

A low, furious growl rose from the gathered men.

The Whent soldiers gripped their weapons tighter, their knuckles white.

Lyonel turned to his men, his eyes burning with vengeance.

"Tie him to the block."

Hands seized Amory, dragging him forward.

They **** his head down against the iron, his arms wrenching behind his back as rough rope lashed him to the block.

The knight thrashed, his muffled curses lost beneath the roar of the crowd.

Lyonel stepped forward, his Valyrian dagger gleaming in the torchlight.

"Each of you," he said, his voice a blade of ice, "will take your turn. Bash his skull against the iron. For Shella. For Harrenhal."

The first man stepped forward—a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his cheek.

He gripped Amory’s hair, yanking his head back before slamming it into the iron block.

The crack of skull against metal echoed through the courtyard.

Blood spurted from Amory’s nose, his scream cut short as his head lolled.

Another took his place.

And another.

Each strike was a judgment.

Each crack of bone against iron, a vengeance.

Lyonel watched, his jaw clenched, his fists trembling.

When some men stepped back, Amory was a broken thing—his face a ruin of blood and bone, his breath a wet, rattling gasp.

Lyonel knelt beside him, gripping his hair to **** his bloodied face up.

"You will burn in hell for this," he whispered.

Amory’s remaining eye rolled to meet his, his lips twisting in a broken sneer.

"Fuck... you..."

Lyonel stood, turning to the gathered men.

"Take him to the godswood after the remaining men are done with him," he ordered, his voice hollow.

"Hang what’s left of him from the heart tree. Let the old gods judge his soul."

Lyonel turned to the Whent captain, his voice thick with grief.

"Gather a token ****. We ride after interring Lady Shella’s remains."

He swallowed hard, his gaze drifting toward the chamber where Shella’s body lay.

"We will inter her remains on the banks of the Gods Eye, as is the Whent tradition. She will rest where the waters can carry her to the gods."

The captain bowed his head.

"It will be done, my lord."

---

Lyonel stood there a moment longer, the weight of the night pressing down on him like a tombstone.

Then, with a final, shuddering breath, he turned and walked back into the castle—back to the woman he had failed, back to the son who would grow up without his mother, back to the war that had taken everything from him.

The courtyard fell silent, the wind howling through the towers of Harrenhal like a lament for the dead.

---

The Whent captain, a broad-shouldered man with a face lined by years of service, approached Lyonel as the last of the torches flickered in the courtyard.

His voice was low, his tone resolute. "My lord," he said,

"I and my hundred men will follow you. Oswell Whent is now the heir to Harrenhal, and we will ensure his safety with our lives."

Lyonel nodded, his jaw tight with gratitude and grief.

"I won’t forget this."

The captain hesitated, then continued, "My father served Lord Walter Whent. He often spoke of his sister—Lady Minisa Whent, mother to Catelyn, Lysa, and Edmure Tully."

His eyes met Lyonel’s, steady and knowing.

"Catelyn and Edmure are deep in this war, but Lysa... Lysa has kept the Vale neutral. The Eyrie is a fortress, untouchable. If there’s any place safe for young Oswell, it’s there."

Lyonel exhaled, the weight of the decision pressing on him.

"The Eyrie," he agreed.

"We ride for the Vale."

---

Within hours, the column was assembled. Sixteen hundred men—Lyonel’s seasoned soldiers, the Whent guards, and a handful of wet nurses to tend to Oswell—moved like a shadow through the dead of night.

The moon cast a silver path ahead, the only witness to their silent exodus from Harrenhal.

The journey east was long, the roads treacherous.

But with each passing day, something shifted. Lyonel, who had once seen Oswell as a fragile tie to Shella, now found himself drawn to the boy in ways he hadn’t expected.

The babe, barely ten months old, would coo and reach for him, his tiny fingers clutching at Lyonel’s beard, his dark eyes wide with trust.

Lyonel would hold him close, whispering promises into his downy hair.

"No one will ever hurt you," he vowed, his voice rough.

"Not while I draw breath."

The Whent men, too, grew harder, their resolve sharpened by the purpose of their mission.

They drilled at every rest, their swords flashing in the sunlight, their laughter rare but genuine.

They were no longer just soldiers—they were Oswell’s shield.

---

On the fifth day, as the column wound through a dense thicket, the sound of hoofbeats and shouting cut through the quiet.

Lyonel signaled a halt, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

From the undergrowth, a small figure burst into the clearing—a boy, no older than seven, his pale blond hair matted with dirt, his dark blue eyes wide with terror.

He stumbled, his breath coming in ragged gasps, before collapsing to his knees.

Lyonel dismounted, kneeling beside him.

"Who are you, boy?"

The child looked up, his face streaked with tears and grime. "N-Ned," he stammered.

"My master... he’s dead. They’re after me."

His voice trembled, but there was a fire in his eyes, a stubborn defiance.

Lyonel exchanged a glance with Dolm, who gave a curt nod.

"You’re with us now," Lyonel said, extending a hand.

"No one touches you."

Ned hesitated, then took it, his small fingers gripping Lyonel’s with surprising strength.

---

A week and a half later, the Gates of the Moon loomed before them, its towering walls carved into the very mountain itself.

The wind howled through the peaks, carrying the scent of pine and snow. Lyonel rode at the forefront, Oswell bundled in his arms, Ned perched behind Dolm on his horse.

The boy’s eyes were wide with wonder as he took in the sight of the impregnable fortress.

Lyonel turned to his men, his voice carrying over the wind.

"We rest here. And we ask for audience with Lady Lysa Arryn."

The gates creaked open, the echo of their passage ringing like a challenge.

Lyonel straightened in his saddle, his gaze fixed on the path ahead.

The Vale awaited.

And with it, the future of Oswell Whent.

---

The High Hall of the Eyrie was a cavernous space, its vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate carvings of falcons in flight, their wings spread wide as if to catch the very winds that howled outside.

The air was thick with the scent of pine and the faint, metallic tang of armor.

Lady Lysa Arryn sat upon the high seat, her pale blue gown shimmering like ice, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sleeve.

Flanking her were the knights of the Vale, their silvered armor gleaming in the torchlight, their faces stern and watchful.

Lyonel stood before them, Oswell cradled in his arms, the babe’s dark eyes wide and curious as he took in the grandeur of the hall.

Beside him, Ned stood quietly, his small frame dwarfed by the towering knights, but his gaze steady.

Lyonel had left his men to rest in the barracks below, choosing to face Lysa with only the boy and the child—his leverage, his responsibility.

Lysa’s voice was cool, her tone measured.

"Ser Lyonel Baratheon," she began, her eyes flicking to Oswell before settling back on Lyonel.

"You come to my hall unannounced, with a babe in arms and a boy at your side. What is the purpose of this visit?"

Lyonel bowed his head slightly, his voice steady.

"My lady, I come from Harrenhal, where I was able to rescue Oswell Whent—the newborn son of Lady Shella Whent, your cousin through your mother’s brother, Lord Walter."

His jaw tightened.

"Regrettably, I must also inform you that Lady Shella was murdered in an internal struggle. I sought to bring Oswell to safety, and the Eyrie seemed the only place strong enough to protect the last of the Whent line."

A flicker of something—grief, perhaps, or mere calculation—crossed Lysa’s face.

"I mourn the loss of Lady Shella," she said, her voice carefully neutral.

"But my mother’s family... they are a distant memory, a relation long past. The Vale has its own concerns."

Lyonel’s grip on Oswell tightened imperceptibly.

"I understand, my lady. But Oswell is the last of his name. I ask only that you foster him here, where he may grow in safety."

Lysa leaned forward slightly, her fingers stilling.

"I will agree to foster the child," she said, her voice taking on a sharper edge, "if you agree to a small task in return."

Lyonel’s eyes narrowed. "Name it."

The lady’s lips thinned.

"The mountain clans, particularly those from the Mountains of the Moon, have grown bolder. Their raids have increased, and they’ve become a serious headache—both politically and militarily. I need this problem dealt with."

Her gaze was unyielding.

"If you help me in this endeavor, I will not only foster Oswell but also lend you the support of my Vale knights. And..."

She paused, her voice dropping slightly, "if you permanently deal with the issue of the Mountain Clans, I will grant you a lordship here in the Vale."

Lyonel exhaled slowly, his mind racing.

He had no future in wandering Westeros like a mercenary, and his claim to Tarth was uncertain at best.

The Vale offered stability, power, and a chance to secure Oswell’s future.

He looked down at the babe in his arms, then at Ned, who watched him with wide, trusting eyes.

"I accept your terms, my lady," Lyonel said, his voice firm.

"I will deal with the Mountain Clans."

Lysa’s lips curved into a satisfied smile.

"Then we have an accord, Ser Lyonel." She gestured to her knights.

"Prepare a chamber for the child and see to the needs of Ser Lyonel and his men."

As he turned to leave, the weight of his decision settled on his shoulders.

The path ahead was fraught with danger, but for the first time in a long while, he saw a future—not as a wandering bastard, but as a lord, a protector, a man with a purpose.

---

The late afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the Gates of the Moon, the air growing crisp as the day waned.

Lyonel stood on the battlements, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the distant peaks of the Mountains of the Moon.

The problem of the mountain clans gnawed at him, their guerrilla tactics rendering brute **** ineffective.

Traditional strategies—sieges, open battles—would only drain resources and lives, leaving the clans to regroup and strike again.

No, this required something else.

Lyonel turned away from the view, his mind made up.

**** would not break them.

Assimilation might.

If the clans could be drawn into Westerosi society, given a place and purpose, their raids would cease.

But first, he needed information.

And for that, he needed to go where the smallfolk spoke freely—Gatehull, the broken town clinging to the foothills like a stubborn weed.

---

With Gendry at his side, Lyonel shed his finery for the roughspun cloak of a traveler, a dagger concealed beneath the folds.

The two men descended the winding path from the Gates of the Moon, the evening air growing colder as they walked.

By the time they reached Gatehull, the sun had dipped below the peaks, casting the town in twilight’s dim embrace.

The streets were narrow, the buildings leaning precariously, their thatched roofs sagging with age.

The scent of woodsmoke and stale ale hung thick in the air.

Lyonel and Gendry made their way to the town’s watering hole, a low-ceilinged tavern where the murmur of voices and the clink of mugs spilled out into the street.

Inside, the air was thick with the warmth of bodies and the tang of cheap wine.

Lyonel took a seat at a corner table, Gendry beside him, and flagged down a serving girl for ale.

As the mugs thudded onto the table, Lyonel leaned in, his voice low.

"We need to steer the talk toward the mountain clans. Subtle-like."

Gendry nodded, his dark eyes scanning the room.

"Aye. But these folk don’t trust outsiders."

"Then we won’t be outsiders," Lyonel replied, taking a slow sip of ale.

"We’ll be men looking for work. Men who’ve heard the tales and want to know the truth."

---

It didn’t take long.

A few coins loosened tongues, and soon, the conversation turned to the mountain clans.

Most of the smallfolk grumbled about raids—stolen livestock, burned crops, the ever-present fear of a blade in the dark.

"Nuisance," one grizzled farmer spat.

"Savages with no honor."

But then, a voice cut through the din—a man with a burnt forehead, his face a map of old scars, his cloak worn but clean.

"You call them a nuisance?" he said, his voice rough but measured.

"You don’t know the first thing about them."

Lyonel turned, his interest piqued.

"Then enlighten us," he said, sliding a mug of ale toward the man.

The stranger took it, his gaze sharp as he studied Lyonel.

"The mountain men are warriors, not thieves. They’ve been trapped in those peaks for centuries, left to rot by the noble Arryns and the other great houses of the Vale. No trade, no respite, no future. What would you do if you were starved out, hunted like animals?"

Gendry leaned forward.

"So the raids—"

"Are survival," the man cut in.

"They take what they need because no one will give it to them. And they hate being called savages."

He drained his ale and stood, his cloak shifting as he moved.

Lyonel’s eyes caught the glint of metal—a Valyrian steel link, half-hidden beneath the man’s cloak.

His breath hitched.

"You’re a maester."

The man’s expression darkened.

"Was," he corrected, his voice suddenly colder.

"Good evening to you both." He turned and strode toward the door, his pace hurried, his cloak billowing behind him.

Lyonel made to stand, but Gendry’s hand on his arm stopped him.

"Let him go," Gendry murmured. "He’s not here to talk. But we know where to look now."

Lyonel exhaled, watching as the man disappeared into the night.

The pieces were beginning to fall into place.

The mountain clans weren’t just raiders—they were ****.

And if desperation drove them, then perhaps hope could be their undoing.