Knights' Fall
Thirtieth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC
The keep at Shrike Hill was not as high as the Eyrie, nor yet as old and storied as Runestone, but it had stood upon the summit of the hill guarding the winding road that led to Gulltown for more than half-a-thousand years. When its foundations had been raised, dragonlords yet flew in pride and glory above the Fourteen Fires and their mage-priests plied their secretive craft. Now that was a world far off from the green hills and blue skies of the Vale, a dream that was half nightmare over the eastern horizon. Those foundations were not laid with the task of resisting concoctions of flame buried at their heart.
The task was swiftly done and the handful of archers who showed their faces over the battlements driven off with the darkenbeasts' poisonous breath. The explosion when the charges went off erupted into a plume of earth and shattered stone, briefly recalling the dread works of Valyria, but more than anything it bespoke of the future which had already arrived.
Stout walls of stone could no longer be counted upon to ward off or even delay the ire of the Crown. The Griffon Knights, mostly young and all in their own way idealists, were gripped by a sudden very practical relief in the fact that they were outside with the Legion and not inside with the ill-fated lord Crayne and his kin.
"The Imperator's patience is long, but it is not without end," Tyene called out, stripping any rhetorical flourish from the last offer. "Surrender now or die unheard in a hole."
They came out, dusty, disheveled, and in the case of some of the women and children, shivering in fright as though they were about to be fed to the darkenbeasts. Tyene did not want to know what kind of shit they had been hearing. Either way, the Craynes were about to find out how well they could manage in life without land or titles. From the look he was giving them, Waymar was at least a little sympathetic, to the family if not its fool of a lord. The woman who had been born sharing her name with every other bastard in Dorne, and with no expectation of ever being given land, held no such tender sentiments. They could play the cards they had been dealt and fall or rise as fate would have it.
Some thirty leagues to the north at Doombell, a blustering Lord Donniger demanded trial by combat rather than surrendering. Tyene briefly considered accepting and leaving him with the ignominy of losing not just to a woman, but a Dornish bastard as well, but in the end she decided against it. Anyone minded to take Donniger's side would just call her a witch to soothe their fears, and she had nothing to prove.
The Red Priestess' Dragonbeast did prove that it was as fond of fire as its present rider while offering an object lesson on why 'shouting nonsense at a heavily-armed enemy' was not in fact considered a form of parley. After the charred corpse had tipped over the battlements, the man's brother decided to show sense and surrender.
As though the fanatical insanity and unearned presumption had burned themselves out in those two instances, House Waxley and House Sunderland chose to offer their pledge before the first warning had even been given, and in the case of the Lord of the Three Sisters, they actually had to beg off a midnight feast.
***
On almost the exact other side of the Vale, Moonsong dealt with the intransigence of House Egen with a rousing account of their relative's death at her hands and a warning that she 'did not do repeat performances', and so would be letting the steam canons argue her point. Perhaps unsurprisingly, after the warning shot the keep surrendered and the lord pledged between clenched teeth to travel to Sorcerer's Deep to offer his fealty.
By contrast, Lord Hersy must have had some sort of seer on hand because the Moonchaser flew over the horizon to find the Three-Headed Dragon flying alongside the Winged Chalice of the House. They could not have sown the banner in the time divination would allow, of course. Apparently, their lord had been planning to travel to the Deep but could not on account of failing health, earning himself a visit to the infirmary instead of a complimentary steam cannon bolt.
That took the Moonchasers to Snakewood Keep where Lady Lynderly threw herself out a tower window as her husband was surrendering the keep. "Thank the Mother's mercy she did not have the children with her," one of the servants proclaimed even while he himself was making the Seven Pointed Star in the direction of one of the Wyverns. It was a very dramatic moment, maybe even worth a line or two in a ballad, but Moonsong was very glad for the scroll of Heart's Ease in the infirmary alongside other healing magics. Getting the Lord functional otherwise would have probably fallen to her, and she had better things to do.
The rather uninterestingly named House Moore, of the indubitably uninteresting Moorlands, returned to form by surrendering with grumbled courtesies that were barely worth needling.
So fell the Vale of Arryn, the second conquest in three centuries, but one that would lie far heavier upon the peaks and vales.
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OOC: I did not include the 'fall' of Baelish's miserable fief because he is dead and because that place is legitimately not worth a visit. Ten Legionaries in a boat could have a good shot at taking it.