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Convinced?
And if you weren't — what then?
Go and test your skull against an ice sword wider than a door?
Ser Gerold Grafton trembled as he picked the greatsword up off the ground.
He didn't look at Lynn again. His gaze went to Bronze Yohn.
In the Vale, the prestige of House Royce sometimes eclipsed even House Arryn. Bronze Yohn's next move would decide the future of every lord in this room.
Yohn Royce rose slowly to his feet.
He didn't look at the knights sprawled across the floor. He didn't acknowledge the desperate, searching gazes of the nobles around him. He just stared at Lynn, those sharp eyes churning with something too tangled to name.
Humiliation. Anger. Resentment.
And beneath all of it, relief. The quiet kind that comes when something finally clicks into place.
He thought of a boy he hadn't seen in over twenty years. A Northern youth who had stood in this very castle with a grave face, asking him for lessons in swordsmanship.
Ned Stark.
The man who valued honor more than his own life.
Yohn Royce had never been able to work out how someone like Ned could throw his support behind Lynn, a King-Beyond-the-Wall wrapped in unknowns, full of variables, impossible to predict.
Now, standing here, he thought he understood.
He turned to face the assembled nobles of the Vale, and when he spoke, his voice rang out like a great bell.
"Did you all hear that?"
"Lord Jon Arryn was poisoned. Murdered by that madwoman and her lowly lover, working together!"
"Lysa Arryn is not worthy to call herself Defender of the Vale!"
"She betrayed the honor of House Arryn. She betrayed every one of us. She played us all for fools!"
The words landed like stones dropped into still water. The ripples hit hard.
A few nobles who had still been clinging to hope finally let their heads drop.
If even Bronze Yohn said so , what was left to fight for?
"Runestone. House Royce."
Bronze Yohn reached for the sword at his hip. Only then did he realize, with a flash of awkwardness, that the blade had been crushed to nothing. He knelt on one knee before Lynn instead.
"We pledge our loyalty to you, Lord Lynn."
"From this day forth, we are yours to command."
That single knee hitting the floor was the first domino.
"Gulltown. House Grafton. We pledge our loyalty to you!"
"Redfort. House Redfort. We pledge our loyalty to you!"
"Ironoaks. House Waynwood. We pledge our loyalty to you!"
One after another, the great houses of the Vale knelt. Swords were offered. Oaths were given.
Ser Marq Arryn let out a long breath and went down with them.
The tide had turned.
No. That wasn't quite right.
This was the best outcome the Vale could have hoped for. Better to follow a man of god-like strength with Ned Stark's trust behind him than to march into ruin behind a madwoman.
They could doubt Lynn. But none of them would ever doubt Ned's judgment.
Lynn watched the sea of kneeling men without a flicker of surprise on his face.
This was exactly why he had chosen to serve under Ned in the first place. Ned's reputation rang out across all of Westeros. The investment was paying off.
Everything was under control.
He didn't reach down to help Bronze Yohn up. He simply asked.
"Ser Nestor Royce should have reached the ruins of the Bloody Gate by now."
"I need you to go there personally, Lord Yohn."
"Tell him the war between the Vale and the North is over. Completely over."
"Have him sit down with Mance Rayder and work out the defense arrangements and the plan to sweep the Riverlands clean."
"Understood."
Bronze Yohn nodded, once, hard.
He knew what this was. His first assignment. His first test. He intended to pass it without a single flaw.
...
The ruins of the Bloody Gate.
The air was drawn tight as a bowstring.
Ser Nestor Royce's three thousand Vale knights had formed up against Mance Rayder's wildling army in a standoff that looked ready to snap.
Except.
The men who were supposed to be enemies weren't acting like it.
Bloody Gate guards and wildlings were mixed together in clusters. Some were trading dried meat and daggers back and forth. Others had their arms slung around each other's shoulders, talking like old friends.
Nestor Royce's eye twitched.
What in the hells was this?
He'd been gone a few days. A few days. And his men had gone and made friends with the enemy?
"Ronald!"
The roar made the Bloody Gate's commander flinch hard.
"Ser!"
Ronald scrambled over at a half-run.
"What is going on here?!"
Nestor jabbed a finger at the soldiers fraternizing with the wildlings, his beard practically vibrating with outrage.
Ronald opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
How was he supposed to explain this? That a single punch had shattered their entire understanding of the world, and then the other side's king had gone and won them over with decency and plain talk? He wouldn't believe it himself if he heard it.
Before he could find the words, Mance Rayder walked out from the wildling ranks alone.
"Ser Nestor Royce. I've long heard your name."
His bearing was easy. Unhurried. Not a trace of nerves despite three thousand armed knights standing across from him.
"I'm Mance Rayder. Former leader of these... Free Folk."
Nestor's gaze cut into him like a blade.
"Was it you who ordered the Bloody Gate destroyed?"
"No."
Mance shook his head. A wry, helpless smile crossed his face.
"That was an accident."
"A... small accident."
He gestured at the rubble, then at the wildlings behind him still haggling cheerfully with Vale soldiers.
"You don't have to believe me, of course."
"But Ser, I think I should point something out."
"If we actually wanted to fight —"
"would there be a single living soul left here right now?"
Nestor went quiet.
The other side had punched the Bloody Gate into rubble. They had a line of fully-armored giants. Giant knights. Giant archers. If they'd wanted a slaughter, three thousand knights wouldn't have been enough to satisfy one giant's appetite. The archers alone could drop a whole formation with a single volley.
But they hadn't.
They'd knocked the gate down and walked away. And now they were trading dried meat with his men.
What kind of enemies were these?
"What do you actually want?"
It was the same question Ronald had already asked.
"We don't want anything," Mance said, spreading his hands. "It's our king, Lord Lynn, who doesn't want the Vale as an enemy. His real enemies are beyond the Wall. Everything he's done here was to show you one thing: Lysa Arryn isn't worth dying for."
Nestor was still wrestling with it, turning it over, when hoofbeats broke through the tension.
A single rider came hammering down the mountain road, trailing a plume of dust. The banner he held high was painted with bronze runes.
House Royce.
Bronze Yohn.
His cousin. Lord of Runestone. Head of their house.
Yohn Royce swung down from the saddle and crossed the ground in long strides. He didn't spare the wildlings a glance. He walked straight to Nestor.
"Nestor."
Nestor bowed, confusion written across his face. "How did you —"
"I come on Lord Lynn's orders."
The words hit Nestor like a bolt of lightning.
Lord Lynn's orders?
The Eyrie had fallen?
How?
"The Eyrie has sworn fealty to Lord Lynn." Bronze Yohn's voice was level, not loud. But each word landed like a hammer. "The war in the Vale is over."
Over.
Just like that.
He'd been gone a few days. A few days, and everything was gone.
He was still trying to catch up when Bronze Yohn turned to Mance Rayder.
"Chief Mance Rayder. Lord Lynn asked me to pass along his regards."
"He says Tormund did well. This month's ale is on him."
"But if Tormund ever goes off on his own again without orders, Lord Lynn will have him made Unsullied and shipped directly to Slaver's Bay."
Mance stared at him.
He glanced sideways at a certain red-bearded wildling not far away, who was suddenly finding the middle distance very interesting.
Lord Lynn was... certainly something.
"Lord Lynn's orders: you and I are jointly responsible for the defense of the Vale's eastern front. All Vale forces are to be reorganized in place and coordinate with the Northern army to hold against any threat from the south."
Bronze Yohn produced a rolled parchment stamped with Lynn's personal seal and held it out to Nestor.
Nestor took it. He stood there holding it, looking at his cousin, then at the wildling chief with his easy, cultured manner, then at the soldiers who were already barely distinguishable by side.
He finally understood.
The moment Lynn's army crossed into the Neck, the end of this war had already been written. He could accept it or not , the result was the same.
The die was cast.
Fighting the tide now would only break him against it.
...
Riverrun.
Lysa Arryn paced the high hall in tight, furious circles, her face a mask of anxiety and venom.
Three days.
Three days, and not a single word from the Bloody Gate.
What was that old fool Nestor doing? He couldn't even hold a gate?
And Walder Frey, that ancient, useless relic. He'd promised to destroy Robb Stark. Now he sat in silence like a corpse.
"Worthless! Every last one of them, worthless!"
She hurled a crystal goblet at the floor. It exploded into glittering fragments.
Maester Colemon came scrambling through the door a moment later, his face the color of old ash.
"My lady! Something's wrong!"
"The Eyrie — a letter from the Eyrie!"
"The Eyrie?"
Confusion crossed her face. Then wild, sudden joy.
"Has that wildling Lynn been turned back by the Bloody Gate? Did he come away with nothing?"
"N-no... that's not..."
The maester's voice was shaking so badly he could barely form words. He held out the letter with trembling hands.
"It's... from Lord Lynn. He wrote it himself."
"Lynn?"
Lysa tore it from his hands and wrenched it open.
The letter was short.
One line.
Your son misses you. Come back and see him.
Lysa stood perfectly still.
Her mind went white.
What did that mean?
Lynn was at the Eyrie?
How could he be at the Eyrie? He was supposed to be bleeding himself dry against the Bloody Gate ,
A thought crawled up from somewhere cold and dark. It grew fast, and it was terrible.
"My Robert... my sweet boy..."
Her body began to shake.
That face, already twisted by years of obsession, was swallowed whole by fear.
Lynn had her son.
He was sitting in the Eyrie right now, waiting for her to walk back through the door.
Walk back.
Into a trap.
She would die.
No.
No, she would not go back. She would never go back.
"Saddle a horse! Get me a horse, now!"
The shriek tore out of her like something feral, like a cat cornered and screaming.
"Where to, my lady?" a guard asked.
"To Walder!"
Her eyes burned with a frantic, wild light.
The Riverlands. It was the only place left that could save her now.
➤ Next: The Red Wedding