[center][h2][b]Jon[/b][/h2][/center]

"You're bastard lucky!" Laughed Ser Rolund Hardying at the Bloody Gate. "This past fortnight, the snows have made the climb near impossible." He was a squat, tan man of an age with Jon and seemed prone to chatter. Knight of the Bloody Gate was an honoured but probably exceedingly lonesome post, even with some three-dozen staff and hangers-on. Jon just laughed. 
"It's snowed at Ninestars too Ser Rolly. Are you going to ask your bloody question or no?" He quipped. The shorter man made a pantomime of taking offense but grudgingly intoned the old words;
"Who would pass the Bloody Gate?" He added a tremulous volume to his voice though Jon had passed into these Mountains a half dozen times before and Ser Rolund knew him well enough. 
"Ser Jon Templeton- Knight of Ninestars, Knight of the Vale, Bannerman to Lady Jeyne Arryn- Warden of the East, Ser." He looked straight ahead, playing the stranger for this time-honoured, if tedious, ceremonial charade.
"And who, good Ser, goes with you?" Pressed Hardying, the red and white chequered surcoat of his House riffling in the strong autumnal breeze.

"My Squire, Harold Stone, my late brother's bastard son; my Master At Arms, Kennet Nash and a retinue of four-dozen Templeton men-at-arms and a score of cavalrymen besides." On cue, a horse whickered and got a sharp slap to the neck for its trouble. 
"State your business, Ser" Rolund intoned, already bored of the chore now.
"I mean to pledge my strength to Lady Arryn in light of recent tidings from Kings Landing and Dragonstone alike." Jon spoke smoothly, tonelessly.

"Lady Arryn has called no banners." A taller man, cast in bronze mail, slipped from the shadows of the gatehouse.
Jon was surprised, then irritated. "My apologies, Ser Yorbert, but I speak to Ser Rolund presently. Yorbert Royce was nephew to Rhea Royce, named for his great uncle who had represented Lady Jeyne at the Great Council in 101AC, now his older brother held Runestone and Jon's older brother had died to put him there. The lanky lad had a habit for interruption and spoke more in a minute than he would stand to in a moon's turn. 

Ser Rolund looked uncomfortable by this interjection but conceded, "Ser Yorbert must needs remember that I am Knight of the Gate and not he, yet he has the right of it. Lady Jeyne hasn't declared either way yet, much less called the banners." He smiled apologetically.
"What of that?" Chided Jon, "I'm a Knight of the Vale! Might I not pass into the Mountains of the Moon as I please? As my Lady's leal bannerman?"

"Steady now, Jon!" Rolund raised his palms in an attempt to pacify the normally easy-going Knight o' Ninestars. "Of course you may pass, but I can hardly let Seventy armed men and horse through unquestioned now, can I?" Jon bowed his head in apology. 

"My force is but a token of what I would bring into my lady's service. They need not make the climb but can remain at the Gates of the Moon or I can have them camp here if it please you better, though I warn you, the men eat more than the horses and shit thrice as often!” He hoped the jest would be well received.

“That won’t be necessary, Ser Blackstar, the Seven protect you. I wish you safe passage.” The squat knight stood aside and Yorbert Royce scowled sullenly as the yellow and black clad column filed past. 

“I thought the Knights of the Vale were all friends…” mused Harold once safely out of earshot of the gatekeeper and his disgruntled companion. The lad had the strength of a boar and his shoulders were thick knots of coiled muscle. He had little of the look of his father, Ronnel, though Jon’s older brother’s life had been marked by the childhood ailment that left him half a cripple. He was plainly garbed as was his wont and Kennet Nash, tall and with a thick grey beard rode beside him, his brow furrowed in thought. 

“In theory, yes.” Jon explained. “In times of war the Knights fight together and are as fearsome a force as any in the known world, yet” He turned to the lad, “the rest of the time we’re like any other brothers, ruled by petty grievances and trivial envies…. Yorbert Royce back there, the bronze streak o’ piss, mislikes us because Uncle Gawayne unhorsed his father in some tilt and him and his brother have always claimed it was done by some underhand trick. Never actually had the truth of it. Never much cared for jousting since losing my father all those years back…” Jon shrugged, it was a painful memory but long years had numbed the hurt and it was done and gone now.

“Would Uncle Gawayne cheat to win a tilt?” Harold puzzled.
“Yes!” cried Jon, Harold and Kennet together. The old Master-at-Arms had grumbled that he was getting too old for these journeys but Jon had insisted. Nash had some ingenius weapon design that he thought might prove useful for any that may wish their keep defended from dragon-attack. There’d be plenty afeared of that, he worried. 

The grey-green peaks of the Mountains of the Moon were capped with white still and the travellers were passing relieved to be off the High Road, not that Jon feared the Mountain Clans, they were sporadic and opportunistic but would have sense enough to know not to molest a party of armed men and horses of a landed Knight. The relief was at seeing the end of the journey before further snows swept in and made ascent to the Eyrie impossible. Overhead, a crow cawed as it sped past high above them; no doubt ferrying word of their arrival on to the Gates of the Moon. From there, they would continue as a trio to the waycastles Stone, Snow and Sky which garrisoned the narrow goat-track that proved the Eyrie’s only way in or out. It was the smallest castle of the Great Houses in the Seven Kingdoms but to assault it was unthinkable. Dragonback was the only feasible attack plan and once Kennet proposed his idea to Lady Jeyne, Greens and Blacks alike might think twice even of that option. 

The smallfolk were busy in the valley, innumerable carts rumbled past in both directions during their half day’s ride towards the Gates of the Moon. The break in the snows had given them a chance of finishing collecting their harvests and swelling their stores. The promise of winter had been exacerbated by the threat of war and whilst there was scant probability of fighting between the two gatehouses here in the Vale, the smallfolk hurried this way and that to safeguard lest the worst did happen. Jon could scarce blame them, the markets outside Ninestars had tripled their trade in the days before they departed as people rushed to secure their families’ provisions for ought that was to come. 

He’d left his Uncle, Gawayne in charge though he knew Ronnel’s widow would rule the roost in his absence as she practically did whether he was there or no. By day she frustrated and terrified him in equal measure, by night… the less said the better. Some addictions were harder to best. He was glad to be free of the place, he always felt better ahorse, sword at his side and in the company of fellow soldiers. Women always complicated things and whilst he held no proclivities for bedding men as oppose to women, he often fancied that to do so would certainly simplify things somewhat. 

He kept those musings to himself. It was a relief too, to have Harold free of the castle. Too much time within those walls brought all kinds of private rivalries to bear and the lad’s affections for their young Sunderland ward was certainly getting the widow’s back up; Allayne Templeton, a Waxley by birth, had been mother to Birgitte Sunderland ever since Jon had brought her back from The Eyrie as a squalling babe some dozen years past. A scheming and bitter woman, she had, at least shown some real talent parenting Birgitte in lieu of a child of her own and had surprised some that she had capacity to love at all. But however strong her love for Birgitte grew, it was counterpoised by her disdain for Harold. It was scarce hard to blame her, Harold was shame for her made flesh; Ronnel’s bastard, sired on some camp slattern, one of Uncle Gawayne’s late wife’s handmaidens and he grew hardy and strong whilst the twisted and malformed Ronnel could scarce rouse himself to enter Allayne, despite her considerable charms.

Jon, to [i]his[/i] eternal shame had come to know those charms only too well and still regularly received his brothers widow in his bed in the black of night. But he was free of her for now and felt better for it. Harold seemed happier too, having seemed to pine for Birgitte in the opening days of their cumbersome march. They’d had to come twice as far West to go back East, given Ninestars’ location on the Southernmost of the fingers upon Serpent’s Bay. They’d been received at Snakewood by the Lynderlys that first night and feasted again at Heart’s Home two nights later but largely they’d faced comfortless camps and scant, barren foothills for the bulk of their journey. Even their final reception at Strongsong, barely four days past seemed a distant memory after long days in the saddle. 

Corbray, Lynderly and Belmore alike had all asked the same question; why not just take a ship? The Serpent’s Bay current was slow at this time but when he’d set out, Jon hadn’t been convinced the snows wouldn’t swell the Serpentine and jeopardise their safe passage; in truth, though he’d come the long way around to gauge the mood of his fellow Valemen. there was a tension everywhere they went, though and whilst there was little to no love in the Vale for Daemon, the Queen’s husband, he found none who spoke fondly of Aegon either. As the light dwindled in the West and finally left the valley, the stony crenellations of the Gates of the Moon stood etched like indigo shadows across the neck of the valley to guard the ascent to the Eyrie. Far off a shadowcat yowled and Jon smiled as Harold unconsciously shrugged his shaggy black cloak tighter around his shoulders at the sound. 

“The echoes make them sound louder, lad.” Nash put in. “They’ll be long leagues off in truth and not like to attack a great host such as ours.” Harold harrumphed, “I’m no craven!” Which made Jon and Kennet chuckle. “Just make sure you leave bread beside you as you sleep and they’ll take the loaf and leave you be.” Kennet reassured him. 
“They eat bread?” Harold frowned in doubt. 

“Love it.” Jon added. “Some of the older cats bake their own” Kennet and the Blackstar erupted in peals of laughter. 
“Fuck off!” Harold spat and spurred ahead as his uncle and the Master-at-Arms howled in mirth. They caught him up as Bronn Waynwood and a detail of some dozen knights stood to receive the party at the Gates. The Templeton levies were already unpacking to make camp to await the Knight’s return but Nash, Harold and Jon signalled their intention to make the climb by night. He wouldn’t risk further snows and committed to continue whilst the going was fair. After speaking with Lady Jeyne he knew they’d be bestowed every comfort the Eyrie had to offer. 

And perhaps he could discover what his liege Lady’s intentions were where nobody else had.