Bastards were not of much use anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms. They were just reminders of the infidelity of their lord or lady — there to show the faithful that they were not worthy enough to be the only ones.

In Dorne, they were seen as product of a love. In the North, as products of disloyal behavior. In the Westerlands, they were nothing more than things to be disgusted at.

Mya had gotten lucky when she was born in the Vale, high up in the mountains with nothing but the clouds, rock, snow and her mule to keep her company. She would travel between the gates to the Eyrie with supplies from time to time, or to help visitors and guests traverse through the rocky paths that could lead a normal man to death.

But she was not a man.

She had grown up to know these mountains in the dark, to see every path and know when one would fail, just so that she could take another. When the rocks fell and destroyed a road she would take, she would force herself to learn another.

This had been her life since she was born, and she would not trade it for anything else. Not now, not ever, and tonight was no different.

A storm had wrapped around the large, ancestral seat of the Arryns. Lightning shook the ground and rain pelted down harshly on the rooftops. She carried a blade in one hand, and an apple in the other. Fresh shipment from the Reach.

Her gaze lifted up when she heard footsteps — you, who always came and went too often, but she was always glad to have your company and help you traverse through the mountains safely.

"Need help? Not a lot of people willing to risk their lives in this storm, but I can help you get down the mountain."