The Giant's Lance pierced the sky, cold winds shrieking between its sheer cliffs and sweeping through the chill mist that lingered year-round.
The Eyrie perched upon its summit, so lofty and remote that it scarcely seemed real.
A sea of clouds churned beneath the castle, cutting this heart of the Vale off from the world-a fortress that seemed secure, yet hung suspended in the air.
A raven flew through the clouds and landed on the perch outside the maester's tower.
The scroll tied to its leg was soon delivered to the study. Once the proclamation of war from the Westerlands was unfolded, the peace the Eyrie had found behind its natural defenses shattered.
In a secluded side chamber, the hearth glowed faintly. Candlelight stretched the shadows of two men across the stone walls, where they gently swayed.
The thick stone walls kept out most of the wind and frost, sealing in a roomful of silence.
Varys was wrapped in soft robes, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight. His voice was thin and soft, betraying not the slightest emotion:
"Dragonfire will not stop at King's Landing. Lord Petyr, by shutting itself away, the Vale may seem to have escaped the war..."
"But once victory and defeat are decided, no cliff, however high, will stop the horses of an invading army-much less dragons descending from the sky."
Littlefinger stood beside the window, his fingertips absently brushing his chin.
He turned, the same half-smile still on his face.
"I never sit around waiting to die, Lord Varys." His tone was light, but coldness lurked beneath it. "The Vale can no longer watch this game from the sidelines."
"Enter the game?" Varys tilted his head, his expression unchanged. "We both know Lady Lysa's mind."
"She has eyes only for Lord Robin and wants