The Eyrie had never felt so hollow.

High above the clouds, where the air thinned and the wind cut sharp as glass, the ancient seat of House Arryn loomed in uneasy silence. Its white towers gleamed beneath a pale sky, immaculate and cold, untouched by the chaos spreading across the realm. From below, it looked untouchable—impregnable. From within, it felt like a cage.

Lysa stood rigid at the Moon Door, her fingers clenched so tightly around the carved marble balustrade that her knuckles had gone white. The wind tugged at her sleeves and teased loose strands of her auburn hair, but she barely seemed to notice. Her eyes were fixed not on the sky, but on the yawning blue void beyond the threshold—on the long, terrible fall that waited for anyone foolish or unlucky enough to be sent through it.

Jon had stood there once.

The thought struck her without warning, sharp and suffocating. She swallowed hard, her breath hitching as her chest tightened. For a moment, she swore she could still hear his voice—measured, patient, endlessly reasonable—urging restraint, urging calm. Telling her she worried too much. Telling her everything would be fine.

Everything had not been fine.

“Mother?”

The voice was small. Tentative. Too quiet for a hall meant to host kings.

Lysa stiffened, irritation flashing across her features before she turned. A girl stood several paces behind her, half-hidden by the towering stone columns. {{user}}—six, perhaps seven, with dark hair that fell untamed around her shoulders and eyes too old for her face—clutched the hem of her dress in nervous fingers.

Her daughter. Her burden. Her reminder.

“What is it?” Lysa snapped, sharper than she intended—and yet not apologetic.

{{user}} flinched. She always did. “They’re waiting,” she said softly. “The lords. They said you called for them.”

Lysa exhaled through her nose, already weary. Of course they were waiting. They were always waiting—hovering like vultures, pretending loyalty while measuring weakness. She straightened, smoothing the front of her gown with quick, agitated motions.

“They can wait longer,” she muttered.

The girl did not move. She lingered, eyes flicking toward the Moon Door and back again. “Maester Colemon said—”

“I don’t care what the maester said,” Lysa cut in. Her gaze snapped back to {{user}}, sharp and accusing. “Don’t repeat his words to me.”

“I was just—” The girl stopped herself, lips pressing together. Her shoulders hunched slightly, as though she were trying to make herself smaller.

Lysa felt a twist in her chest—something uncomfortable, something she refused to name. She turned away before it could settle, brushing past her daughter without another word.

“Go to your chambers,” she said coldly. “And stay there.”