Vale, High Road
The carriage swayed with every rut in the road.
Rhea sat stiffly on the cushioned bench, one hand braced lightly against the wood beside her as the wheels rolled over uneven stone. Across from her sat Lady Janyce Arryn with her two sons pressed close on either side, boys not yet ten and far too lively to be shut inside a carriage for so many hours.
Godric had stolen Osric's little carved horse again.
"It rides better with me," Godric declared, holding it just out of reach.
Osric lunged for it. "It is mine!"
"You left it beside me, so now it is mine."
"That is not how it works!"
Osric shoved at his brother's shoulder. Godric shoved back harder. The horse nearly dropped to the floor between them.
"Boys," Janyce said.
Neither listened.
Godric made the horse rear in the air with a foolish little whinnying sound. Osric tried to snatch it again and caught only his brother's sleeve.
"Boys."
Still they scuffled.
Janyce's patience snapped.
"Enough."
Her voice was not loud, but it cut clean through the carriage.
Both boys froze.
Godric slowly lowered the carved horse. Osric folded his hands into his lap, though his mouth still twisted with outrage. For a moment the only sound was the creak of wheels and the dull thud of hooves outside.
Rhea looked at them and, before she could stop herself, the corner of her mouth lifted.
"He took my horse," Osric said, as if appealing to a judge.
"I borrowed it," Godric muttered.
Osric looked scandalized. "You did not ask!"
Rhea's smile deepened.
Then Lady Janyce's eyes met hers, and Rhea quickly smoothed her face again.
But Janyce had seen.
A small smile touched Lady Arryn's lips.
"You needn't hide it," she said lightly. "They are amusing enough when they belong to someone else." Her eyes flicked toward her sons. "A little less so when one must actually raise them."
Godric slumped. Osric still looked injured.
Then Janyce turned back to Rhea, her smile gaining a teasing edge.
"Though no doubt you will learn that soon enough. You will have children of your own, and then you may suffer as I do."
Rhea's lips twitched.
The thought did not please her. More than anything, it felt strange.
Janyce noticed that too. She had the sort of eyes that missed very little.
Her tone softened.
"So," she said, "how do you mean to convince Prince Daemon?"
Rhea's expression cooled instantly.
For a moment she said nothing.
It still irked her that her father had spoken of it. Worse that he had spoken of it to others. Worse still that what lay between husband and wife had become something discussed in another lady's carriage like weather or harvests.
Janyce seemed to understand the source of her annoyance.
"My apologies," she said, with enough grace in her voice to keep the words from sounding hollow. "But there is little point pretending such things remain private among great houses. They rarely do."
Rhea turned her face slightly toward the small window. Mist clung pale and thin beyond the glass. She did not answer.
Janyce watched her a moment longer, then smiled again. Not mockingly. More as one woman studying another.
"Prince Daemon is a little wild," she said.
That was putting it kindly.
Rhea looked back at her.
Janyce continued, "You should not think in terms of winning him."
That caught a hint of Rhea's attention.
Janyce saw it and leaned back more comfortably against the cushions.
"You should think in terms of reining him."
Rhea frowned.
Janyce's voice remained calm.
"Men like that do not settle because someone asks sweetly. They do as they please for as long as they are allowed to do so. So do not begin by seeking his heart. Begin by seeking your position."
Rhea listened, quieter now, but more focused.
Outside, the carriage hit another rut. Godric and Osric swayed together, then settled again. This time neither spoke.
Janyce went on.
"Have children first."
Rhea blinked once.
Janyce spoke the words as though they were obvious.
"Your footing changes with it. You cease to be merely the wife he neglects and become the mother of his issue. That matters. To Prince Baelon. To the king. To the queen. To the realm."
Rhea said nothing.
But her silence had changed, and Janyce noticed. She smiled.
"If Daemon will not listen to you," she said, "then make him listen to those he cannot ignore."
Rhea's brows drew together in thought.
"How?"
Janyce's smile returned, smaller this time. Sharper.
The sort of smile older women wore when speaking of things younger ones had yet to learn.
"You do not fight a man like Daemon with tears or pleading," she said. "You let others see what he risks by behaving as he does. You let his father hear. You let the queen know. You let the king understand. Not all at once. But enough." She folded her hands neatly in her lap. "Men may ignore wives. They find it harder to ignore fathers, kings, and inheritance."
Rhea sat very still.
There was sense in it. Cold sense. House sense.
She did not like that.
But she could not say it was wrong.
"You are his lady wife," Janyce continued. "Do not think that means nothing. A lady's place in a house is not kept by affection alone."
For the first time since the subject began, Rhea spoke without edge.
"You make it sound simple."
Janyce laughed softly at that.
"It is never simple." Her hand came down lightly upon Osric's knee when the boy began reaching again for the carved horse. "But it is often plain."
Rhea fell quiet again.
She looked down at her hands and thought on Daemon. On his temper. His pride. The way he had gone without looking back. Then on his family. On the king and queen. On duty. On heirs. On what a wife might do if she stopped waiting to be wanted and began instead to make herself impossible to set aside.
The logic of it sat uneasily in her mind.
Janyce did not press further. She only reached across and took the carved horse from Godric at last, then returned it to Osric.
"There," she said. "Peace in the Vale."
Godric huffed. Osric hugged the little horse to his chest like a rescued prince.
Outside, Vale knights rode around the carriage in steady formation, mail glinting dull beneath the mountain light. Spears rose above them. Hooves struck the road in a steady rhythm. Another carriage rolled before this one, larger and better appointed.
Inside it, Lord Taron Arryn sat with a cup of wine in hand.
He held it loosely as he looked out through the window at the passing world. Mountains rose on both sides of the High Road, grey and vast, their slopes wrapped in drifting fog. Pines clung to the heights. Stone loomed through the mist like the ribs of the earth itself.
The whole party moved south through that narrow road of mountain and cloud.
Toward King's Landing.
High above, among the stones and pines of the mountain, three pairs of eyes watched the carriages and riders pass below.
Vale, Mountains of the Moon
The wind was loud in the heights that day, moaning through pine and stone like some old beast in pain. It shook the thatch and made the hanging bones clatter soft against one another. Smoke drifted slow beneath the roof-hole, and the stink of it mixed with sour milk, old furs, sweat, and crushed herbs.
Stigg, son of Stous, lay dying.
The old chief of the Stone Crows had been laid upon a bed of pine boughs and dried leaves, with deerhide and ragged furs thrown over him. Once he had been a hard man, broad in the chest, feared in the passes, but age and sickness had gnawed him down to a bundle of bones wrapped in loose skin. His breath came thin and wet. One side of his face twitched now and again. Two women crouched by him, one with a wooden bowl, the other grinding roots and bitter leaves between stones. They muttered to one another in low voices, and once one of them lifted a cup to Stigg's lips, but most of it ran down his chin.
Then came the sound of feet outside.
Men's feet. Heavy. Sure.
The women heard it too. One turned her head toward the flap of woven reeds. The other froze with the pestle in her hand.
The flap was pushed aside, and Ulf came in.
He filled the doorway a moment, tall and broad, with a wet cloak of skins hanging from his shoulders and his beard full of mountain mist. Behind him stood his men, hard-faced and armed. They did not come within. They stayed outside the thatch, watching, hands on axe hafts and knife grips, like guards set over a captive.
Stigg's eyes opened wider when he saw his son.
A little of the fear went out of him then. "Ulf," he said, though it came out more croak than word. "You come back."
"Yes, Father," said Ulf.
Stigg licked dry lips. "Where you been?" His voice was weak and broken. "Should not go off. Not now. Not leave tribe."
Ulf stepped farther in. He did not answer. He looked at the two women instead. "Out."
The women glanced at one another.
"I said out."
There was no mistaking the sound of command in him. They rose and slipped past him, heads bent low, carrying bowl and herbs between them. Neither looked him in the eye. The flap fell shut behind them.
Now there were only father and son within, and the little fire, and the smoke turning in the dimness overhead.
Stigg watched him. "You bring bad air with you."
Ulf gave a short snort through his nose. "I bring better than that. I bring a chance."
Stigg said nothing for a moment. His old eyes stayed on his son's face. "Chance for what?"
"To kill Vale knights," said Ulf. "To pay them back. To pay for my brothers."
At that, the old chief's face changed. The small flicker of gladness there died quick. He shut his eyes and gave a weary groan. "No."
Ulf's mouth hardened. "No?"
"No." Stigg opened his eyes again. "Fool's work. Leave it. Leave it be."
Ulf stood still as stone.
Stigg gathered what little breath he had. "Knights got steel. Horses. Mail. More men than we got. They come up hard if you strike 'em hard. Burn us out. Cut us down. You think on brothers, you kill more brothers yet."
"They killed mine already," said Ulf.
"Your brothers died fools."
The words hung there between them.
Ulf's eyes narrowed. "Say it again."
Stigg coughed, a bad tearing cough from deep in his chest. When it passed, he spat into the rushes. "They died fools. Bold fools. Hot-blood fools. You be one too, if you go chasing Vale steel."
Ulf took one step closer. "They died because Vale dogs think they own these mountains."
Stigg gave a weak shake of the head. "They think that whether we raid or no. But men still live while they think it. Men still eat. Still breed. Still see spring."
That only made Ulf angrier. "You'd have us hide in holes, then."
"I'd have us live."
"Coward's talk."
The word seemed to wake some old anger in Stigg. He tried to rise from his bed of boughs, pushing on one elbow, his mouth twisting with pain. "Coward?" he hissed. "You call me coward, boy?"
But the strength went out of him before the fury did. He could not sit upright. He could not even shout. His voice broke like rotten wood, and all that came after was a ragged whisper. Still his eyes were hot.
Ulf looked down at him with no pity. "You are old," he said. "Old and soft. Old and scared."
Stigg dragged in a breath. "I seen more winters than you. More blood. More dead sons. I know what comes of such talk."
"I went where you would not go," Ulf said. "I found men. Good men. Men with hate in 'em still. Men ready to strike. Men not afraid."
Stigg's eyes shifted then, and Ulf saw that he understood. Maybe he had understood from the first. The women put out. The guards at the door. The look in his son's face.
"You'll break the tribe," the old man whispered.
"I'll lead it."
Stigg tried to curse him, but the curse was weak and shapeless.
Ulf moved then.
He went down on one knee beside the bed and put one hand over his father's mouth, the other hard across his nose. Stigg jerked under him, shocked more than strong, his hands flying up at once. His fingers clawed at Ulf's wrists. His legs thrashed beneath the furs, kicking pine boughs loose, rustling leaves and skins.
Ulf held him fast.
Stigg fought as much as a dying man could fight. His eyes went wide and white in the dim hut. He made a choked sound behind Ulf's palm. His nails scratched skin. One heel drummed weak against the earth. His body twisted, then shuddered, then weakened.
Ulf never said a word.
The old chief's hands lost their strength first. They slipped from Ulf's arms and fell back against the furs. His legs gave one last twitch. The wet rasping breath stopped.
Still Ulf held on a little longer.
When at last he let go, Stigg lay still upon his bed of wood and leaves, his eyes half-open, his mouth slack. The smoke drifted over him. The chief of the Stone Crows was gone.
Ulf rose.
He wiped his hand upon his cloak, looked down once at the dead man, and then ducked out beneath the thatch flap.
The tribe was waiting.
Word had traveled swift, as it always did in a small camp. Men stood in knots with spears and axes in hand. Women lingered back, with children peeking from behind skirts and furs. The two women who had tended Stigg stood off to one side, saying nothing. Ulf's men were there as well, standing close by him, watchful, ready.
Ulf let them all look.
Then he announced, "Stigg is dead."
No one answered.
"He passed in the hut. I am chief now."
That too hung in the air plain as smoke. A lie? Maybe. Maybe not. It did not matter much. The old man was dead. Ulf stood living. Ulf had strong arms, hard followers, and the will to use both. The tribe saw that. They knew what it meant.
Some looked at the ground. Some looked to the men behind him. A few looked toward the hut. But none stepped forth to deny him. None spoke Stigg's name like a challenge. They all knew the younger, stronger son had long been gathering men about him. They knew too what happened to those who stood against such things and stood alone.
So they bent, if not in body, then in silence.
Ulf took that silence for what it was.
"My father's last wish," he said, loud enough for all to hear, "was that our dead be paid for."
A few faces changed at that. Not because they believed it, but because they wanted to.
"The Vale knights killed our blood. Our brothers. Our sons. They ride below and think these mountains theirs. They think Stone Crows are beasts to be hunted, driven, slain."
Now he drew his knife and raised it high.
"I say no. I say the mountains are ours, same as they were before any Andal set steel-shod foot upon them. I say we make the knights pay. I say we show them who truly rules the high places."
One of his men gave a shout then, and banged axe against the shield-rim.
Another took it up. Then another.
The men of the tribe roared as one. Spears lifted. Axes rose. Knives flashed in the smoky light. The sound rolled through the camp and out across the stony heights. Some cheered for vengeance. Some for Ulf. Some because others were cheering, and because it was safer to howl with the wolves than stand meek before them.
The women did not cheer. Neither did they speak against him.
And so it was done.
Stigg, son of Stous, lay dead in the dark of the hut, and Ulf, son of Stigg, now stood in his place before the Stone Crows.
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