The wind outside the Eyrie was cold and brisk, but inside its white stone walls, a flurry of activity stirred as Lord Rodrik returned to his duties. He and Lord Yobert Arryn sat within the solar, documents and scrolls sprawled across the table between them. Rodrik wore a simple doublet, eyes moving quickly over each parchment, making notes and issuing orders with sharp precision.
"Lord Ronnel is still requesting increased grain tariffs from Gulltown," Yobert said, rubbing his temple.
"Deny it," Rodrik replied immediately. "Let him send a formal complaint if he dares. Gulltown supports half our trade. We'll not bleed it for the sake of one lord's greed."
Yobert nodded, pushing that paper aside. "And the mill repairs in Runestone?"
"Approved. They get twenty gold dragons from the treasury, and half the labor will be paid by House Royce. It was their oversight that caused the failure."
It took them the better part of the day, but they managed to clear most of the urgent backlog that had built in Rodrik's absence. As they leaned back to catch their breath, Yobert poured them both a cup of strong Vale wine.
"And the volcanic ash deal?" Yobert asked finally.
Rodrik sipped his wine and exhaled. "Finalized. The Crown takes fifty percent of future profits, once we begin to sell. Until then, we pay a fixed rate for the ash, with transportation and security handled by the Crown."
Yobert scowled. "Half our profit? For just the ash?"
"Not just any ash," Rodrik said calmly. "Volcanic ash from Dragonstone. We don't have another volcano in the Vale, or anywhere close enough. This is the price for opportunity."
Yobert gave a reluctant nod. "Then should we begin the cement production? Start the roadwork?"
Rodrik's expression turned grim. "Not yet. Not until we deal with the mountain tribes. If we begin now, they'll burn the wagons, kill the workers, and stall the entire project. No more delays. No more throwing lives and coin to the wind. It's time to put this to rest."
He stood. "Send the ravens. Call our bannermen. We convene a war council at the Eyrie."
---
Over the next few days, the Vale came alive with the approach of its noble lords.
Lord Yorwyck of House Redfort was the first to arrive, his face lined with age and stone-like resolve. Rodrik welcomed him personally at the gates.
"The stone still holds, Lord Yorwyck," Rodrik said with a warm nod.
"And it shall break the wild men once more," Yorwyck replied.
Next came the young and eager Ser Mychel of House Waynwood, donned in polished armor despite the peaceful call.
"You shine like you're here for a tourney, Ser Mychel," Rodrik jested.
"Let the mountain men see their doom coming in steel and silver," Mychel grinned.
House Royce arrived with their full entourage, Lady Rhea Royce grim and respectful. She was wearing their ancestoral Bronze armor .
"I heart you were there My Lord Daemon was defeated by Sir Criston Cole in the tourney so is it true that he was humiliated in front of everyone?," Rhea asked simply.
To which Rodrik just nodded because he didn't knew how to answer that.
To that Rhea said only one word " Good"
So they arrived: House Corbray with Lady Lynessa, fierce as ever. House Belmore, House Templeton, and even lesser-known bannermen, each welcomed by Rodrik with personal familiarity and courtesy.
---
The great hall of the Eyrie echoed with conversation as the lords gathered.
"If he has a plan, I hope it's better than my grandfather's," one knight whispered to another. "We've been playing hide and seek with these tribes for generations."
"Rodrik's not his grandfather," replied a lesser lord. "He's something else. He knows how to think... and how to make others follow."
"He brought volcanic ash to the Vale," someone chuckled. "Maybe next he'll bring the sea."
The hall was alive with murmurs, anticipation building like a drawn bowstring.
Rodrik was sitting on his seat while quietly observing all this & then he stood.
The murmuring quieted as Rodrik stood from his seat, his gaze sweeping across the gathered lords of the Vale. The firelight caught on their silks and chainmail, on polished brooches and aged faces weathered by mountain winds. Lords of old houses sat shoulder to shoulder — Coldwater, Redfort, Hunter, Belmore, Waynwood — each waiting for the young Lord of the Vale to speak.
Rodrik stepped forward slowly, no guards at his side, his hands clasped behind his back.
"I thank you all for coming," he began, voice calm but commanding, his tone not seeking approval. "This council has been called because we face a shared threat — one we have tolerated for far too long."
Some lords leaned forward. Others exchanged glances.
"The mountain clans have grown bold. They attack our roads, our caravans. They raid villages, steal livestock, and murder our smallfolk. This is not the occasional skirmish of the past. This is a problem festering under our noses while we squabble about grain tithes and border disputes."
He let the words settle.
"Now is the time to end it."
A beat of silence.
Then it began.
"Bold words for a boy who's yet to bleed in battle," Lord Guncer Sunglass scoffed.
Lord Morton Redfort added, "This is no petty banditry. The clans fight like wolves. You'd send our men to die because your books say it's time for war?"
Another voice chimed in from the rear. "You want to lead a war when your dont even know how to hold a sword properly?"
A few others nodded or muttered their agreements.
Rodrik didn't flinch.
He walked down from the dais and into the center of the room. His eyes met each lord's gaze, unblinking.
"You're right," he said, simply. "I am young. I have not swung a sword in real battle. And yes, there are knights in this room twice as skilled as me with a blade."
That caught them off guard.
"But here is what I do have — a mind that sees ten steps ahead, and a will that doesn't bend. You ask me why I think I can lead this campaign?"
Rodrik reached into a satchel one of his men brought forward. He pulled out several parchments — rough maps of Vale passes, detailed supply routes, old reports on mountain clan positions.
"Because while others have ignored the tribes, I've studied every inch of their movements. I've spoken to survivors. I've sent scouts. I know which clans fight alone and which ones ally. I know which mountain paths they use, where they store what little grain they steal, and how to make sure they never rise again."
He walked toward Lord Redfort and laid a map in front of him.
"These passes are vulnerable. But if we fortify here—" he pointed, "—and we strike here, here, and here, in coordination, we'll break them."
Still silence.
Rodrik turned back to the crowd, voice growing harder.
"You think leadership comes from age and scars alone? The old kings thought that too — until Aegon the Conqueror burned their castles to ash. Leadership comes from vision. From resolve. From the ability to do what must be done when no one else dares."
Then, quieter. "You think I haven't bled? I have. You just haven't seen it."
He let that hang before finishing.
"I will not ask again. Those who ride with me — I will remember. Those who stay behind — I will remember that too."
Silence, thick and taut.
Then Lord Benedar Belmore leaned forward and said, "He might not swing a sword like his ancestors, but he speak like an Arryn."
Others slowly nodded. Lord Waynwood gave a thin smile. Redfort sighed but said, "I'll ride."
Rodrik returned to his seat and sat, calm but firm.
"Well then," he said, a spark in his eyes. "Shall we begin?"