[b]Gates of the Moon[/b]

The skies above the ancient castle had been filled with the cries of ravens since the arrival of the Hand of the King and the new Knight Herald. The Belmores and Tollets had answered Mychel's call, as had the clans long acquainted with Lord Tyrion, yet the Black Falcon had not ceased his labour. Many more messages went and came before the feast, as the heir to the Vale tried to pull as many distant strings as he could before his true quest began. Even with the many delegates and knights that now filled the castle's great hall, probably just enough to make their stance in the coming conflict, he did not allow himself to rest. Any quick resolution to the old question of the Mountain Clans would suffice, and a bloodless peace would be even better... but Mychel found in himself a growing lust for something else: a resounding, powerful diplomatic victory that would reshape the realm in ways both massive and subtle. And for that, he would have to muster every bit of influence available to him, every owed favor, every piece of leverage.

As he strolled through the hall, pale blue eyes watching every lord and lady present intently, mouth producing warm pleasantries with ease, Mychel's mind juggled a dozen ideas. Dressed once more in finery, his black hair washed and perfumed, he pondered his near and far futures, the strategies of history's great diplomats, the taste of the wine on his tongue, and the lingering, though considerably numbed pain in his wrist. And he worried... and yet he also yearned. With every step he took as a Knight Herald, by the Hand's side, his taste for this, for the diligent work of a strategist, a peacemaker, a seducer of the powerful, grew more and more.

He returned to his seat beside Lord Tyrion feeling the pleasure of having made a handful of Vale lords smile and nod at his words with either sincerity or thinly veiled opportunism. Either way, he was making gains. The constant comments about their unmarried daughters, however, had not escaped his notice. And neither had they escaped Lord Tyrion's, if the look in his mismatched eyes was anything to go by.

"My dear cousin wants a military victory," Mychel said, biting on a piece of food to conceal the changing expressions of his mouth. "I fear that, even if we succeed, he will continue to undermine the peace."

[i]And me.[/i] He thought to himself. [i]And as long as he has father's ear, this entire effort will be in peril... as will be my position.[/i]

For a flickering moment, his thoughts turned dark and violent. A bloody image crossed his mind and vanished as soon as it appeared. He quickly took a sip of wine to hide the involuntary grin it produced.

"I do, however, thank you for the compliment, my lord," he said as his cup clanked with the Hands.

He took another sip, longer now, and stared at the remaining contents with a strange look in his face.

"As for marriage..."

He was silent for a moment, and none of his early enthusiasm showed in his features. But there was something else, something colder.

"A union with a fellow Arryn might spare me some grief, but it would ultimately be another step towards my house cannibalizing itself," he almost whispered. His voice sounded distant, its concern less emotional and more calculated. "The last two generations of my house left us on the brink of the main line disappearing entirely. And though we still stand now... what are we, the Arryns? What is our purpose? What is my father's purpose? What use is he to Westeros?"

His eyes turned to his father, sitting at the top of the dais, his mother beside him. "There he sits, the Lord Paramount, my father. In the seventeen years I've been alive, how many important, world-changing decisions has he made? The knights of the Vale have won many glorious victories, true. But what has [i]he[/i] done? And what did my grandfather do, other than be Robert Baratheon's enabler, and becoming, with his assassination, the first of the many sparks that set the Baratheon dynasty ablaze?"

He drank the last remaining wine in his cup, the mild burning on the back of his throat almost wonderful.

"I would very much rather marry outside of the Vale. Any gains I could make marrying a lady of these lands would be short-term, and our house has isolated itself enough already."

He refilled his cup and Lord Tyrion's, and a warm smile returned to his face.

"But there might be some lords in this hall that could be further persuaded to see things our way, and disregard whatever my father or Ser Harrold may think, without having to make their daughters Lady Paramount."

With that said and done, he stood up, cup in hand, and walked towards a middle-aged man dressed in the colours of House Corbray.

"Ser Lyn, it is most strange to see you without Lady Forlorn in hand, ready to defend the Vale's honor," he said to the Corbray knight with laughter in his voice and a wide smirk on his comely face. The knight only slightly turned his head towards the young Arryn at first, his smiling eyes belying the stern shape of his mouth. The rest of his body seemed more interested in the Waxley squire sitting beside him.

"Why? Are you looking for a duel between Valyrian blades, falcon boy?" Ser Lyn Corbray asked, prompting a chuckle from the squire and Mychel.

"It depends. Am I expected to be undressed for it, ser?" Mychel asked in a lowered voice, arching an eyebrow and placing his hand on the knight's shoulder. "I remember how enthusiastic you were about that manner of confrontation during the tourney at Heart's Home."

The older knight did not blush, but his immediate discomfort was clear to see, as was that of the Waxley squire. It took Ser Lyn a moment to regain his composure, and even when he did, there was a fear in his eyes as he rose to his feet and bowed his head to Mychel. Taking a step forward, he leaned in to whisper into the young Arryn's ear.

"What is the meaning of this... my lord?" He asked, his shaky breath ghosting over Mychel's pale skin. It did not smell like he had drunk too much wine. That was good. Mychel wanted him lucid.

"Before you inconspicuously take the Waxley lad to your chambers, I would like to share a word with you and Lady Forlorn," said Mychel, whispering as well, his gloved hand lightly resting on the man's arm. He took a small sip of his wine before he continued. "I fear I might need you, your steel and your passion in the coming negotiations."

Ser Lyn was silent for a short time, his armored feet shifting on the stone floor.

"...you want me to play the diplomat for you? To help you appease those savages?"

"Oh no, my good and handsome Ser Lyn..." Said Mychel, leaning closer, his lips almost touching the man's neck and jaw as he slowly moved up, towards his ears. "I am offering you the chance to make me forget one lurid, potentially scandalous memory I have of you, in exchange for your public support, some Corbray knights, and Lady Forlorn herself if needed."

[i]Had I a bag of golden dragons, I would rather bribe him. I loathe using his secrets against him, specially when his tastes are not truly secret.[/i] Mychel thought, sighing internally as he drank more of his wine and stepped back. [i]And my memories aren't truly that scandalous, save for that last one... but he thinks they all are, and that is good enough for this.[/i]

The Corbray knight stared at him, thoughtful, dubitative, but the flash of fear in his eyes told Mychel that he had made his decision. He had won.

"Will my lord also want me to speak to my brother and gain his support?" He asked, a fake smile on his face. There was something of an angry hunger in his look as he bowed again. Ser Lyn could be hot-tempered, but Mychel had learned once that that quality sometimes manifested in more positive ways, specially towards himself.

The Black Falcon nodded. "That would be wonderful, Ser Lyn. I would be most grateful... and I will be happy to talk with Lord Nestor about arranging for more private accomodations for you and your good friend there."

He glanced at the Waxley squire, who sat still at the table, oblivious to their conversation. Ser Lyn looked back with a small grin, before turning to Mychel.

"Would my lord care to join us for a private game of cyvasse after the feast?" Asked Ser Lyn with not even the pretense of subtlety in either his voice or look. Mychel's smile did not falter, but his eyes turned cold.

"My apologies, but no. I thought I'd made myself clear on this matter."

Ser Lyn's quiet, humilliated concession was enough. Mychel left him there without a second thought, half-empty cup in hand. He exchanged a little triumphant look with Lord Tyrion as he approached their seats again.

The Belmores, Tollets, Royces, Waynwoods and Corbrays were all on their side now, and with a few more words he would have the Lynderlys and Hunters. Not quite a majority of the houses of the Vale, but enough to render mostly toothless whatever attempts Ser Harrold and his father made to undermine their work. Mychel now had a coalition of his own, lords and ladies at the service of the Hand and the Knight Herald, rather than the Lord Paramount and his armoured puppeteer.