Dachaigh, the Mountains of the Moon

Tenth Day of the Third Moon, 200 AC

The clansmen arrived home to cheering.

As it would turn out, some of the clansmen who had broken away from the warband after their successful abduction of the Falcon Lord had brought word of their success to the Highlands, and the clans had rejoiced. Thousands of clansmen, women, and chieftains from the many clans of the hilltribes flocked down from the mountain paths to the Redsmith oppidum to catch sight of the Andal lord and the Griffin King who had captured them.

Of course, Donnahal had not been told that, so he was a tad bit surprised to find his oppidum surrounded by deer-skin tents and a crowd awaiting his arrival.

Halting his horse briefly, he surveyed the people gathered before him, and the chatter began to fade as they payed heed to their king. For a moment, Donnahal was captivated by the sight-- all those clans, all those chieftains, and they all paid homage to him. How had it been since the clans had united behind a single leader? How long since the First Men had ruled as Kings?

Far too long, Donnahal knew, but we have rectified that mistake. I hope I’ve not made another one, in doing what I have.

Sparing a glance backwards, he caught sight of the Arryn, no longer blindfolded (they had undone the cloth when they were deep in the mountains, for the Falcon Lord knew not the paths required to return him home) but still bound, before he turned back to his people and raised a fist, victorious.

“WE HAVE THE ARRYN!”

The silence permeated for a moment more before the Mountain Clans of the Moon burst into jubilation.