The Eyrie, a white castle atop a towering mountain.
Like a spear carved from a giant's bones, it thrust proudly into the sky.
It was the most impregnable fortress in Westeros.
Clouds were its walls, and the howling wind its horn.
Since the Age of Heroes, no army had ever taken it in a frontal assault.
Yet now, within that mighty fortress, a madness more piercing than the mountaintop winds hung in the air.
In the hall of the Main Keep, which towered into the clouds, the Vale's noble bannermen had gathered.
They wore their houses' armor, their expressions solemn.
Lysa Arryn.
The Vale's current mistress had once been reasonably pretty, but years of obsession and grief had twisted her face.
Her eyes were sunken, her lips cracked, and her long brown hair hung in a tangle like dead grass.
Clutched tightly in her arms was a boy who looked seven or eight, yet was as frail as a child of three or four.
Robert Arryn.
The future lord of the Vale.
At that moment, the future lord of the Vale was like a hungry fledgling, greedily sucking at that shriveled...
"Mother, a little more..."
The boy's shrill, sickly murmur burrowed into everyone's ears like a slimy, revolting maggot.
"My sweet baby, of course. You can have as much as you want."
A chilling smile of maternal affection spread across Lysa Arryn's face.
She adjusted her position so her son could feed more comfortably.
The hall was deathly silent.
The Vale's noble bannermen, those knights who took pride in their honor and ancient bloodlines, all bowed their heads, staring at the finely crafted leather boots on their feet.
No one dared look up.
No one dared gaze at the nauseating scene upon the high throne.
"Enough, Lysa!"
A low roar