The Deceitful Lord's Mountainous Ambush

The sky was a canvas of deep blues, streaked with the silver of dawn as it struggled to pierce the dense fog that clung to the mountain's folds. Below, the village of Llwyn-y-gwynt lay huddled, unaware of the storm that was brewing in the heart of their overlord, Sir Rhys ap Owain.

Sir Rhys was not a man of the people. His heart was as cold as the ice that clung to the peaks of the nearby Snowdonia Mountains. He had a plan, a ploy, to conquer the hills that rose like a barrier between him and his throne. It was a plan that would require cunning, deceit, and a heartless disregard for the lives of his subjects.

In the great hall of the castle, Sir Rhys sat at the head of a table, his eyes piercing the faces of his closest advisors. Among them was Lord Ewan, a man whose loyalties were as fickle as the wind that howled through the valleys.

"The time is near," Sir Rhys announced, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. "The Snowdonia Mountains must be ours. I will have the highest seat in the land, and no one will dare to challenge me."

Lord Ewan's eyes narrowed. "The mountains are treacherous, my lord. They are the home of the fey, the realm of the unseen. What guarantee do we have that our plan will succeed?"

Sir Rhys's lips curled into a cruel smile. "The fey are not to be feared. They are to be used. I have a plan, Ewan, a plan that will have them serving at our feet."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. "We will build a false summit, a deception so grand that the fey will not suspect a thing. And when they gather to celebrate their victory, we will strike."

Lord Ewan's face paled. "That is... treacherous, even for you, my lord."

Sir Rhys stood, towering over his advisor. "In the game of thrones, there is no room for treachery. Only victory."

In the days that followed, the castle was a hive of activity. Men and women worked tirelessly, constructing the false summit. Sir Rhys himself kept a close watch, ensuring that every detail was in place. The fey were oblivious, for they were too engrossed in their own celebrations to notice the deceit.

The day of the deception arrived. The fey gathered in their thousands, their revelry echoing through the hills. Sir Rhys stood at the summit, his eyes gleaming with the same coldness as the mountain's peaks.

As the fey reached the peak, Sir Rhys gave the signal. The ground beneath them gave way, and they tumbled into the abyss, their cries of despair mingling with the wind that howled through the valley.

From his vantage point, Sir Rhys watched as his plan unfolded. The fey were no more, and the Snowdonia Mountains were his. But as he stood there, the first rays of dawn piercing the sky, he felt a chill run down his spine.

For in the game of thrones, victory is fleeting, and the cost is often too high.

In the aftermath of the deception, the village of Llwyn-y-gwynt was left in shock. The lord who had promised them peace had instead brought destruction upon them. The people mourned their lost kin, and their trust in Sir Rhys was shattered.

Lord Ewan approached Sir Rhys, his face pale. "My lord, the people are restless. They will seek revenge for the loss of their kin."

Sir Rhys's eyes narrowed. "Revenge? Or perhaps, they will see the truth. The truth that some sacrifices must be made for the greater good."

He turned and walked away, leaving Lord Ewan to ponder the true cost of his loyalty. The mountains remained, silent and ominous, a reminder that not all that is conquered can be claimed as one's own.

As the story of Sir Rhys's treachery spread, the people of Llwyn-y-gwynt found solace in their shared sorrow. They knew that in the end, it was not the mountains that posed the greatest threat, but the treachery that lay within their own hearts.