Game of Thrones: The King of Bronze and Fire

"Let's head out. I'll deal with the letter later."

Aemon grinned, brushing off any concerns about the summons from King Viserys.

Rhaenyra wouldn't rush into marriage so easily, and the more anxious his uncle was to bring him back, the clearer it became that the king needed him to stabilize the increasingly divided court.

But Aemon had more pressing matters to attend to—like establishing his own foothold.

"Hyah! Hyah!"

With Aemon's command, the small party moved forward, riding toward the rugged terrain ahead.

渡鸦岭 (Ravenridge) stretched for hundreds of miles from north to south, riddled with uneven paths and winding mountain roads. Though the ride was challenging, a fifty-mile trek wouldn't take them long.

"Yoo-yoo," called the white stag beneath Aemon, leaping effortlessly over the rocky trail.

Aemon observed the road carefully, noting how unexpectedly wide the mountain path was.

"This trail is better than I thought," he remarked.

At least two carts could pass side by side.

"Every year, when we visit the Eyrie, we take this path," said Gonsor Royce, who rode up alongside him. "But the road is still too rough. Marching an army through here would stretch the column thin."

Aemon nodded, immediately understanding the underlying issue.

Military formations should never be stretched out across narrow, treacherous roads. It left the front and rear vulnerable to ambush.

Indeed, history proved this.

An earlier Lord of the Eyrie and his heir had been ambushed by highland clansmen while traveling through these very mountains, leading to their deaths. That tragedy had nearly caused the main branch of House Arryn to die out, if not for the intervention of Aemon's great-uncle, Yorbert Royce, who had secured the succession for young Jeyne Arryn.

Thinking of that, Aemon made a mental note:

"When I secure this land, my first task will be to build a proper road."

By noon, they reached a vast grassy plain beyond the ridge.

"Whoa!"

Aemon reined in his stag, taking in the scene before him.

The mountains gave way to open fields, crisscrossed with streams and covered in lush greenery.

"By the gods!" exclaimed Ser Steffon. "I never imagined there'd be such fertile land hidden within the Mountains of the Moon."

Even Gonsor Royce looked impressed as he surveyed the wide, flat expanse of land.

"It's true," he confirmed. "This is the river valley."

The land stretched endlessly in all directions, lush and fertile, with dark, rich soil beneath their feet.

"This… this is black soil," Aemon murmured, bending down to touch the earth.

Unlike most of Westeros, only the Vale of Arryn was known for having black soil—perfect for farming.

"Look at that!" Gonsor pointed ahead. "That's the Greenridge."

Aemon followed his gaze to a green hill on the horizon, the second ridge that marked the entrance to the valley.

"The valley stretches for three hundred miles north to south, and a hundred miles east to west," Gonsor explained. "Beyond the Greenridge lies the heart of the valley."

Eager to see more, Aemon urged the group forward.

The land grew richer the farther they rode, with rivers and fields in abundance.

"This place could feed an army," Aemon thought.

Half an hour later, they reached the base of the Greenridge.

"This ridge used to be called the Greenridge," Gonsor said, gulping water from his flask. "There's an old story that it was once sacred to the Children of the Forest."

Aemon listened with mild interest.

Ancient tales of the Children of the Forest had long since lost their relevance. Now, the land belonged to men.

"We're here. Let's take a look around before heading back," Aemon declared.

Gonsor nodded, and they began their ascent.

But just as they reached a flat stretch of road, an arrow whistled through the air.

"Look out!"

"Highland clans!" shouted Gonsor, drawing his sword.

Aemon remained calm. His hand flicked to the hilt of his sword, and with a sharp swing, he cut the arrow out of the air.

"Shield wall!" ordered Ser Steffon.

The knights of the Vale quickly formed a defensive circle around Aemon, their shields locked together.

Aemon picked up the broken arrow and examined it.

"Crude craftsmanship… but effective," he muttered.

Then, from the ridge above, dozens of figures emerged—wild men clad in animal skins, brandishing weapons.

"Kill the knights! Take their steel!"

"They're from the Fire-Forgers clan," Gonsor growled. "One of the larger highland clans."

"Do we retreat?"

"Retreat?"

Aemon smiled, raising his sword.

"Follow me. We charge."

He spurred his white stag forward, leading the charge against the charging clansmen.

It was time to claim this land for himself.