Defeated Like a Collapsing Mountain, What Are You Laughing At?

The towering arch of the Bloody Gate slowly closed behind them, sealing the Vale's peace away beyond the mountains.

Morton Waynwood rode a tall chestnut warhorse, the cold wind snapping the cloak embroidered with House Waynwood's wheel sigil behind him.

Behind him, seven hundred fully armed Vale heavy cavalry surged like a tide of steel, their hoofbeats shattering the morning's silence.

His eldest son, Roland Waynwood, rode beside his father, excitement written all over his youthful face.

"It seems Suleiman is quite popular."

Morton Waynwood looked toward the Riverlands in the distance as he spoke to his eldest son, Roland Waynwood.

Roland Waynwood frowned. "How can you say a rebel is popular, Father?"

Morton Waynwood waved a hand from the saddle and gave a scornful laugh. "What is a rebel? The victor becomes king, while the loser becomes a bandit."

"When Robert Baratheon rose in rebellion against the Iron Throne, he was the greatest traitor in the Seven Kingdoms, a rebel who deserved to be burned alive."

"But when he smashed Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate with a single blow at the Trident and sat upon that chair of swords, who still dared call him a traitor?"

Roland Waynwood's expression changed, and he hurriedly lowered his voice. "Father! Watch your words! Watch your words!"

Morton Waynwood snorted, the ambition in his eyes no longer concealed. "What is there to fear?"

"I took Lady Lysa Tully as your stepmother and hold seven-year-old Harrold Hutton in my grasp. What right does the son of a landed knight have to rule the Vale?"

"When the time comes, it will be no difficult matter for your father to take control of the Eyrie."

He patted his son on the shoulder, his voice full of temptation.

"By then, House Waynwood will be the master of the Vale."