Something was going on in the castle; I could feel it in the air. Most of the major lords in the Vale were hurriedly leaving the Eyrie. I believed Lord Arryn had secretly ordered his most trusted bannermen to prepare for the coming storm.
I knew Jon Arryn understood that war was imminent and was already making his moves. History would record that it was he who would first defy the Mad King and call his banners. Well, it was 282 AC, and while conflict brewed, I was not yet swept up in its current. I intended to use the time I had in the Vale wisely.
Thus, I found myself traveling with the departing lords—Lord Royce, Lord Redfort, and Lady Anya Waynwood, alongside her son and heir, Morton. They had extended the invitation, and I saw no strategic reason to refuse. We packed our gear for the ride to their castle, Ironoaks.
Morton and I got along well. He was a solid sparring partner, hungry to learn new techniques and drills. We spoke of arms and armor, of the different fighting styles we had encountered across the kingdoms, and of the responsibilities of knighthood. His younger brother, Donnell, was getting along famously with my men. He confessed his envy that my subordinates had already seen four of the seven kingdoms and the capital itself.
Lady Anya Waynwood observed the journey from her carriage, occasionally engaging me in conversation through the window. I spoke with her of the Queen of Thorns, of how House Tyrell had used my talents for entertainment and then threatened me when I was no longer of immediate use. I shared a few carefully chosen anecdotes about Olenna Tyrell's sharp tongue, which drew a measured laugh from the Lady of Ironoaks.
Lady Anya was a shrewd politician, and I could see she appreciated discerning conversation. Speaking frankly about the follies of other lords, like the Tyrells, seemed to amuse her and build a rapport based on a shared understanding of southron politics and the ambitions of great houses.
I sometimes glanced at Morton, who was deep in conversation with Rick. I had entrusted one of my swords to Rick, and he was explaining its balance and make to the young heir, who examined it with a keen, appreciative eye. He seemed entirely focused on the blade, paying no mind to my discussion with his mother. I returned my attention to our conversation about the political landscape of the Reach.
This was a woman who had been widowed twice and had chosen to rule alone thereafter. It was a rare path, one that spoke of formidable will. Perhaps she felt isolated, the weight of command distancing her from her own family. I could see a certain formal distance between her and her sons, who were preoccupied with martial pursuits and the pursuit of their own glory. When the conversation allowed, I ventured a polite question about her house's history. The answers painted a picture of a woman who had fought hard to maintain her family's position, a struggle I could respect.
I also spoke with Morton alone. It became clear he chafed under his mother's regency. He was a man grown with heirs of his own, yet he remained the heir, not the Lord of Ironoaks. He confided his frustration, believing others looked down on him for lingering in his mother's shadow. I understood the sting of that. However, it was also evident that Morton's talents lay more in martial vigor than in political cunning. He made decisions too openly, trusted too readily—a potential liability for a ruling lord. That, I suspected, was the true reason Lady Anya kept a firm hand on the reins. I told him I would be a neutral ear for both sides if ever needed.
Her other son, Donnell, squired for his brother and dreamed of earning a white cloak as a Knight of the Gate, the highest honor in the Vale. He dedicated nearly all his time to training.
With her youngest son fostered far away for years to come, and a daughter-in-law she seemed to have little in common with, I began to understand the unique isolation of her position. I made a mental note to tread carefully; becoming entangled in the internal dynamics of a major Vale house was a dangerous game.
We had ridden for nearly a full day on the mountain roads. As night fell, we made camp. We prepared a chicken roast over the fire, and I broke out some of the fine wine Robert had given me. It made for a pleasant evening.
We did not consider that a fire, while warding off beasts, could also draw more dangerous predators.
I woke in my tent, a primal instinct screaming of danger. I shook the two squires dozing at my tent entrance awake. I would have to address their negligence later. "Rick! Colt! Up, now! Rouse the others and arm yourselves!"
They jolted into action. Peering into the darkness, I could make out shapes moving in the woods—thirty, maybe forty men, closing in on our camp. This was bad. The Waynwood party had twenty-five souls, but only eighteen were fighters; the rest were servants and maids. "Ambush!" I roared, my voice cutting through the night.
I was still shirtless, having grown accustomed to sleeping without the constriction of armor. There was no time to rectify that now.
I saw the Waynwood guards scrambling into a defensive perimeter around Lady Anya's tent, with Ser Morton at their center. The battle was joined. I was impressed by their swift response; they were on their own lands and clearly expected such threats.
But why attack us now? If this was meant for me, I could only speculate about darker forces at play. I knew the Three-Eyed Raven held sway over those with the blood of the First Men. While I could navigate the machinations of Varys, the Raven's motives were an enigma. Was this a test? Or was I simply being paranoid, and this was merely a well-armed mountain clan seizing an opportunity?
It didn't matter. The time for thought was over.
I stepped forward and brought my sword across in a wide, horizontal slash. The edge caught the first clansman in the neck and bit deep into the shoulder of the man beside him before I wrenched it free. They fell, choking and bleeding, into the dirt. My men closed ranks beside me, their own blades rising and falling with disciplined fury. Within moments, a dozen clansmen lay dead or dying at our feet.
The Waynwoods were not faring as well. I saw several of their guards already slain. I barked orders to my men. "Rick, Claw, Alfy, Morty—support Ser Morton! Hale, Colt, get the wounded to cover! Now!" They moved as one.
I fought my way across the camp, my sword a blur. I felt like a force of nature, my body moving with a lethal grace I still found disconcerting. I counted twenty fallen before I circled back to the main tent.
One detail struck me as I fought: none of these raiders appeared younger than twenty-five. They had sent their best, their strongest. This was no mere raid for plunder.
When I reached the tent, the scene was grim. Nearly all the Waynwood guards were down. Morton was on the ground, bleeding heavily. One of my men was also down, and another—Morty—was howling, clutching his ruined left eye. Only four of my subordinates and two guards remained, locked in combat. Rick was dueling a massive, ugly brute who wielded a fine sword with a Damascus pattern. The leader.
A cold fury settled over me. Death would be too kind. I charged, and with a swift, precise blow from the flat of my blade, I dashed the leader's brains against his skull, dropping him unconscious. I would have answers from him later. Seeing their champion fall, the remaining raiders broke and fled, only to be cut down as they ran.
I surveyed the carnage. The sight of the dead was becoming grimly familiar.
Rick stood panting, the two surviving guards looking shell-shocked. "Rick, see to Colt's bleeding! You, sers, get Morton's armor off and put pressure on his wounds! Hale, get Morty into the tent!"
A scream tore from inside the tent.
"Alfy! Claw! With me!" We burst inside to find two clansmen who had slit the canvas from the rear. Servants lay dead around them. One had a grip on Lady Anya, the other held Donnell. "Another step and I snap her neck!" the first snarled.
Claw didn't give him the chance. A dagger flashed through the air and buried itself in the man's forehead. As he crumpled, I caught Lady Anya before she fell. I turned my gaze to the second man. "Your options are simple. Harm the boy and die in agony, or run and keep your life."
He was a coward. He chose to run, scrambling back toward the slit in the tent.
A nod from me was all Claw needed. He retrieved his dagger and sent it spinning into the man's back before he could take three steps.
Of all my men, Claw was the most ruthlessly efficient. He had mastered my knife-fighting lessons, and I had gifted him a black steel dagger for his prowess. Its value had just been proven beyond measure.
"My lady, are you injured?" I asked, steadying her. She was trembling but composed.
"Yes... I am unharmed. You have my thanks, Ser Julius, for my life and my son's." Then her eyes fell upon the dead servants, and the composure broke. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing against my chest.
A moment later, she pushed back, urgency in her eyes. "Morton! Where is my son?"
"He is wounded, my lady, but the injury is not mortal. He will live." At my words, she and Donnell rushed outside.
We followed. She was kneeling beside Morton, her tears falling on his face. He was unconscious, but the guards had competently stanched the flow of blood.
I turned to my own. Colt was out cold, a deep gash across his back. Hale was already cleaning the wound. Morty sat nearby, a bloody cloth pressed to his eye. He had lost it. I could see the pain etched on his face. "Rick, did you clean his wound?" I asked.
"Aye, ser. Used the strong wine."
"Good." I knelt before Morty. "Can you hear me, lad?"
He looked up with his one good eye, jaw clenched. "Aye, ser. I lost an eye, not my ears."
Despite everything, I felt a grim smile touch my lips. "That's the spirit. That sharp tongue is all we need. Don't fret; a maester will see you right."
Through the rest of the night, we gathered the dead and burned them. The clan leader did not survive our interrogation. By morning, his suffering was over.
At first light, I sent the two surviving Waynwood guards ahead. "Ride hard to Ironoaks. Bring back a maester and more men." They hesitated, looking at their wounded liege.
"I swear to you, by my honor, I will protect your lady and her sons with my life," I vowed. They sought and received a confirming nod from a pale but resolute Lady Anya, then galloped away.
We salvaged what supplies we could. We placed Morton, the unconscious Colt, and the stoic Morty into the carriage with Donnell. Alfy would drive. That left Lady Anya to ride, and she joined me. My poor horse, Stormwind, would have to bear the extra weight. "Sorry, old friend," I murmured, and he snorted in response, as if in resignation.
And so we moved on, a battered and bloodied party, with Lady Anya guiding us along the mountain path toward the safety of her walls.