Chapter 23 : Arryn Valley

Catelyn rode in silence, her expression troubled. Just moments ago, a Lannister squire had succumbed to a high fever brought on by an infected wound. They dared not linger, but the boy named Cole had insisted on burying him.

No one stopped him this time. He had proven himself countless times along the journey, single-handedly cutting down nearly half their enemies. Even the seasoned knights remained silent, acknowledging his contribution.

Catelyn had never put much faith in the heroic tales of knights, but after meeting this child, she found herself believing them.

Now, only a handful of them remained—Winterfell's aging master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel; Ser Willis Wode; and the minstrel, Marillion. These men stood firmly by her side. Bronn, however, had clearly aligned himself with the devil.

Cole buried the squire named Morrec, his face dark with sorrow, his entire being like a silent volcano on the verge of eruption.

"He's killed too many," Ser Rodrik murmured to Catelyn. "He can't bear it anymore."

Catelyn frowned. "How could this happen?"

Regret gnawed at her. She had acted rashly, dragging a Lannister to the Vale in pursuit of justice for her son, never imagining the cost. Six people had already died because of her decision. She wasn't heartless—she had simply wanted what was right.

Meanwhile, Bronn nudged Tyrion and muttered, "Something's off with your little brother."

Tyrion had already noticed. Cole had remained eerily silent the entire journey, his face locked in a grim expression, unresponsive to anyone.

"I'm not blind, mercenary. I can see that. What's happening to him?"

Bronn, a man well-versed in the brutality of war, had to admit—the boy's ferocity was terrifying. He was a "warrior" in the truest sense, one the Seven Gods themselves might admire.

"This happens often on the battlefield," Bronn said lightly, as if it were of no concern. "You'd better pray he doesn't explode in the next fight, or we'll all be in trouble."

"You mean… he's suppressing it?"

Bronn nodded.

"And what do you suggest we do?" Tyrion asked.

The sellsword thought for a moment before flashing a knowing grin. "Get him a woman."

Tyrion's face darkened. "Now's not the time for jokes, mercenary."

"It's not a joke, Lannister. Why do you think soldiers run straight to brothels after a battle?"

Both men instinctively glanced at the only woman present.

Before the thought could take root, Cole swung himself onto his horse. "Let's go."

"Man, you need to learn to relax," Bronn quipped, forcing a grin.

"Yeah," Cole muttered, but his tone was distant, unaffected.

The horses set off, their hooves pounding the ground rhythmically. The sound seemed to stir something in Cole. He tensed.

A firm hand clapped his shoulder. "Calm yourself, lad," came the steady voice of Ser Rodrik. "It's just killing a few men. Knights are born to fight. Prepare yourself, and when the time comes—fight to the death."

Cole looked up at the old knight. Ser Rodrik looked weary, his face pale, but he had remained by Lady Stark's side, protecting her. Cole turned and saw Catelyn smiling at him.

What was wrong with him? He asked himself. Killing disgusted him—but they had all been enemies. If he hadn't killed them, he would be dead. He had only been defending himself.

And yet, the wails, the pleas for mercy—they clung to him like shadows, whispering in his mind.

The first time he had taken a life, it hadn't seemed so terrible. Life and death had always been common sights on the Wall. But the more he killed, the more frequently he took lives, the heavier it all felt.

Up ahead, a group of armored cavalrymen approached, their banners fluttering—a blue flag bearing a white crescent falcon.

"Looks like we're saved," Tyrion murmured. "Arryn knights."

One of the riders called out, "Who are you?"

Catelyn quickly stepped forward. "I am Catelyn Stark of Winterfell."

The lead knight hesitated. At first glance, he had mistaken them for a band of mountain clansmen. But as his gaze landed on Catelyn, he took in her fine Andal features—so strikingly similar to Lady Lysa Arryn, matron of the Vale.

The mountain clans were descendants of the First Men, rough and rugged, their women rarely possessing such beauty.

And she had called herself "Stark."

What was someone from the North doing here?

If Tyrion had known what was going through the knight's mind, he would have surely corrected him: "People from the North are also descendants of the First Men."

"Lady Stark, why are you here?" Ser Donnel Waynwood asked, clearly puzzled.

"I've come to see your duke's wife, Lysa Tully. I am her sister."

At her words, Donnel quickly bowed his head in apology. "My lady, forgive me. I was unaware of your arrival."

"There's no need to apologize, Ser Donnel. I came in haste to see my sister." She paused before asking, "May I inquire about your family's title?"

"I am Donnel Waynwood, of House Waynwood. Please allow me to escort you safely to your destination, my lady."

"I know Countess Anya Waynwood. How is she faring these days?"

"My mother is well," Donnel replied.

Catelyn offered a polite smile—gracious yet distant, like a warm spring breeze that remained just out of reach.

Donnel was a knight fiercely loyal to House Arryn. His manner was refined, his words carefully chosen.

Tyrion leaned in and murmured to Cole, "This family is famous for its courtesy."

With the Arryn cavalry surrounding them, they moved steadily toward the mountain pass. The old knight, Ser Rodrik, was struggling to stay on horseback. As they neared the fortress, Cole reached out to support him.

Rodrik hesitated for only a moment before accepting the help, muttering a quiet, "Thank you."

Lady Catelyn's concern was evident. She turned to Donnel and asked anxiously, "Are there any maesters at the fortress?"

Donnel shook his head. "All the maesters were summoned to the Eyrie by your sister, my lady."

The fortress loomed ahead, built into the narrow gorge, its watchtowers clinging to the sheer rock walls. Cole was stunned by the near-impenetrable defenses before him. No wonder it had taken a dragon to conquer the Vale. The Bloody Gate was a fortress that no ordinary army could breach.

Of course, the Vale hadn't been taken by war but through peaceful submission—but the dragon had certainly played a role in that decision.

Yet, once inside the fortress, Cole realized he had underestimated the so-called "turtles" of the Vale. The sheer complexity of their fortifications left him speechless. I'm still too young, he thought to himself.

There, waiting to greet them, was another knight of the Bloody Gate—Catelyn's uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish. Even Jaime Lannister himself had once spoken of him with respect.

His nickname was just as renowned as he was. It was said that his brother, Hoster Tully, had once called him the "black sheep" of House Tully, but Brynden had countered, saying he was a Blackfish instead. His armor bore a golden and obsidian black fish sigil—the inverse colors of House Tully's silver trout.

Beyond the Bloody Gate, the Vale of Arryn stretched out before them, unveiling a breathtaking sight. The morning sun bathed the valley in golden light, illuminating lush farmland, rolling rivers, and towering peaks. It was a paradise, untouched and serene, protected by the mountains that walled it in.

Among those peaks, the highest of them all speared into the sky—the Giant's Lance.

"The Eyrie is there," Blackfish said, pointing toward a distant fortress. "Near Alyssa's Tears."

Alyssa's Tears—Cole had heard of the river that flowed from the heights of the Giant's Lance. There was some legend tied to it, but the details escaped him now.

As he gazed at the fortresses layered across the mountains, each one more defensible than the last, Cole shook his head in disbelief. These people really are like turtles hiding in their shells.