The physical toll of bending the laws of the universe was not something that could be slept off.
For three days after the longship returned to Runestone, Rhea did not leave her bedchamber. The violent exertion of the Pulse breathing, combined with the agonizing neural strain of invoking Father Time, had left her body battered from the inside out. Her muscles twitched with phantom tremors. Her skull felt as though it had been packed with crushed glass, a constant, blinding migraine that made even the dim light of the hearth fire unbearable.
Her mother, Lady Alys, sat by her bedside, placing cold compresses steeped in willow bark and mint on her daughter's forehead. Alys did not ask what had happened in Gulltown. Bronze Yohn had simply told his wife that their daughter had secured the coast, and that the cost had been steep. Alys Royce knew better than to pry into the bloody mechanics of her husband's wars, but seeing her fierce, unbreakable child shivering in the dark broke her heart.
"You push yourself too hard, Rhea," Alys murmured on the third evening, carefully wiping a bead of cold sweat from Rhea's pale cheek. "You are flesh and bone. Not iron."
Rhea opened her eyes. The pounding in her head had finally dulled to a manageable throb. She looked at her mother's worried face, the soft, aristocratic features lined with a profound, terrifying anxiety.
"Iron rusts, Mother," Rhea whispered, her voice raspy from disuse. "I have to be something else. Something that endures."
She slowly sat up, pushing the heavy wolfskin furs aside. Her body ached, but the structural integrity of her muscles held firm. She had survived. She had crippled Tywin Lannister's shadow war in the Vale, and she had returned with the proof required to unite the mountain lords.
"Where is Father?" Rhea asked, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.
"In the solar," Alys sighed, knowing she could not stop the storm once it decided to move. "He has been pacing the floorboards for two days. Ravens have been flying back and forth to Ironoaks."
Rhea nodded, standing up. Her legs were steady. The weakness was passing, replaced by the cold, calculating drive that defined her second life. "Have the maids bring me hot water, Mother. And my riding leathers. It is time to hunt."
The "Hunting Party" at Ironoaks was the most heavily guarded social gathering in the history of the Vale.
When the Royce party arrived at the Waynwood seat a week later, the sprawling courtyards were packed with the elite retinues of the most powerful houses outside the Eyrie. The banners of the Six Bells of Belmore, the Nine Stars of Templeton, and the Three Ravens of Corbray hung heavily in the crisp, winter air.
This was the true military and economic heart of the Vale. These were the lords who commanded the heavy horse, the archers, and the deep vaults of gold. And they were all currently paralyzed by a grieving widow locked in a white tower.
The summit was held in the Great Hall of Ironoaks, but the heavy oaken doors were barred, guarded inside and out by the most trusted, sworn knights of House Waynwood and House Royce. No servants were permitted. No cupbearers.
Rhea stood in the shadows near the roaring hearth, her presence barely acknowledged by the older lords who had gathered around the massive, circular oak table. She preferred it that way. She was dressed simply, in dark wool and leather, the Bravoosi sword resting quietly at her hip. She watched the men analyze each other, calculating their pride and their prejudices.
Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars, was a wealthy, arrogant man whose lands bordered the coast. Lord Benedar Belmore was a large, cautious man with a booming voice and a hesitant heart. Lord Lyonel Corbray was a proud, rigid traditionalist, but standing immediately behind him, leaning casually against a stone pillar with Lady Forlorn at his hip, was his younger brother, Ser Lyn.
Bronze Yohn Royce and Lady Anya Waynwood stood together at the head of the table. They were the anchors of this conspiracy.
"We are gathered under the guise of hunting winter wolves, My Lords," Yohn Royce began, his deep voice carrying the weight of ancient stone. "But the wolves we hunt do not howl in the woods. They wear red cloaks, and they carry Lannister gold."
Lord Belmore frowned, his heavy jowls shaking. "Treasonous talk, Yohn. The King is Joffrey Baratheon. The Lannisters are the Crown. Lady Lysa has forbidden us from taking up arms against the Iron Throne."
"Lady Lysa is hiding under her bed while Tywin Lannister sets fire to our house!" Lord Templeton snapped, his pride wounded by the passive stance of the Eyrie. "But what proof do we have, Yohn? You claim the Lannisters are moving against us, but they are bleeding out in the Riverlands fighting the Young Wolf. Why would Tywin bother with the Vale when we have sworn to stay neutral?"
Yohn did not answer. He looked across the room, past the gathered lords, and nodded to the shadows by the hearth.
Rhea stepped forward.
The lords turned, their expressions ranging from confusion to outright offense. Ser Lyn Corbray's dark eyes narrowed instantly, recognizing the lethal, quiet grace of his former squire.
"Because Tywin Lannister does not believe in neutrality, My Lords," Rhea said, her voice cool, carrying effortlessly through the cavernous hall. "He believes in control. And if he cannot control the Vale through alliances, he will control it through chaos."
Lord Corbray stiffened. "Lord Yohn, are we taking military counsel from a fifteen-year-old girl?"
"You are taking counsel from the person who single-handedly crippled a Lannister smuggling operation in our own waters," Yohn rumbled, silencing the room with absolute authority. "Speak, Rhea. Show them the truth."
Rhea walked to the heavy oak table. She unslung a heavy burlap sack from her shoulder and dropped it onto the wood. It hit with a massive, metallic clatter that made the lords jump.
She pulled open the sack.
Out spilled a jagged, blackened chunk of fused steel. It was the size of a man's torso, a horrific, melted amalgamation of broadswords, chainmail rings, and iron helms, all fused together by the impossible heat of her thermite charges. Mixed within the slag, partially melted but still identifiable, were the roaring lion crests of the Westerlands.
Following the slag, Rhea tossed a heavy leather coin purse onto the table. It burst open, spilling dozens of gleaming, pristine golden dragons across the wood.
The lords stared at the melted steel and the gold in stunned silence.
"Three weeks ago," Rhea began, pacing slowly around the table, her eyes locking onto each lord in turn, "a fleet of three deep-draft galleys dropped anchor in the restricted wharves of Gulltown. They were flying Grafton colors. But their cargo holds were packed with enough heavy plate and castle-forged steel to outfit an army of five thousand men. It was paid for with that gold, delivered personally by Lancel Lannister."
"Gulltown?" Lord Belmore gasped, his face draining of color. "Lord Grafton allowed Lannister ships into his port?"
"Lord Grafton sold the security of the Vale for gold," Rhea corrected coldly. "The steel was meant for the mountain clans. The Stone Crows and the Burned Men. Tywin Lannister intended to arm our own savages, paying them to lay siege to our lower castles and burn our supply lines. He wanted to ensure that if the Eyrie ever did decide to march, we would be too busy fighting a civil war in our own mountains to ever reach the Riverlands."
"By the Gods," Lord Templeton whispered, running a hand over the fused, blackened steel. He looked at the melted mass, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. "This... this is unnatural. What kind of fire could do this to solid steel?"
Rhea did not miss a beat. "The fire of House Royce, My Lord. I burned the warehouse to the bedrock. The ships were sunk at anchor. The steel is useless slag. The Lannister plot in Gulltown is broken."
Ser Lyn Corbray pushed himself off the stone pillar. He walked slowly toward the table, ignoring the other lords, his eyes fixed entirely on Rhea. He remembered the rumors that had flown through the Vale over the past fortnight. Tales of a blinding white star falling on the Gulltown docks. Tales of a demon bird that froze the sea.
"You," Lyn whispered, a twisted, terrifying smile spreading across his handsome face. He looked at the melted steel, then back at his former squire. "It was you. The phantom of the docks. You burned the port."
"I surgically removed a tumor, Ser Lyn," Rhea said, her expression flat. "Before it could kill the host."
Lyn Corbray threw his head back and laughed. It was a sharp, barking sound of pure, unadulterated delight. "And you told me you were just a student of the blade! Lord Yohn, you hide a dragon in your forge and tell us she is a blacksmith!"
Lord Lyonel Corbray glared at his brother, embarrassed by the outburst, but the shock of the revelation had shaken him. He looked at Lady Anya.
"If Grafton is taking Lannister gold, we are surrounded," Lyonel said, his voice grave. "The clans in the mountains, the Lannisters to the west, and a traitor holding our only port."
"Which is why we can no longer afford the luxury of waiting for Lady Lysa to save us," Lady Anya Waynwood declared, stepping forward and placing her hands on the table. "The Arryns rule the Vale, but we are the Vale. It is our blood that will water these valleys if we do not act. I propose a formal pact. The Bronze and Iron Pact. We pool our intelligence, our resources, and our levies."
"To what end?" Lord Belmore asked nervously. "To march on Gulltown? To besiege the Eyrie?"
"To secure our borders," Bronze Yohn Royce rumbled. "We establish a unified standing army. We blockade the mountain passes from the inside, hunting down every last savage who holds a piece of foreign steel. We place embargoes on Gulltown—we starve Grafton of our inland grain and wool until he remembers who his true neighbors are. We seal the Vale tightly enough that not a single Lannister spy or coin can slip through the cracks."
"It is a shadow council," Templeton observed, his eyes gleaming with the prospect of bypassing the madwoman in the Eyrie while protecting his own wealthy lands.
"It is survival," Rhea corrected softly from the shadows.
The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of treason and necessity. If Lady Lysa discovered this, they could all be named rebels. But the melted Lannister steel on the table was a stark reminder of what awaited them if they did nothing.
Lord Symond Templeton was the first to move. He drew his dagger and drove it deeply into the oak table. "The Nine Stars stand with Runestone and Ironoaks. I pledge my levies to the Pact."
Lord Lyonel Corbray nodded grimly. "Heart's Home will not hide from savages or lions. We are with you."
All eyes turned to Benedar Belmore. The large man swallowed hard, looking at the gold and the steel, before finally giving a slow, heavy nod. "The Six Bells will ring for the Pact."
Lady Anya poured wine for the lords, passing the goblets around the table. "Then it is sealed. We are the shield that guards the Vale. We answer to the Eyrie in name, but we answer to each other in blood and steel."
They drank. A new, terrifying power bloc had just been forged in the heart of Westeros, operating entirely beneath the notice of the Iron Throne and the warring kings.
As the lords dispersed to their respective corners of the hall to discuss troop movements and supply lines, Ser Lyn Corbray walked over to where Rhea stood by the hearth.
He didn't sneer. He didn't mock her. He looked at her with the calculating, predatory respect of a killer acknowledging an equal.
"You played us all, little bird," Lyn said softly, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight. "You squired for me to learn how men die. You forged alliances with the Waynwoods to learn how men are bought. And now you have the greatest lords of the Vale dancing to the tune of a fifteen-year-old girl."
"I am securing my home, Ser Lyn," Rhea said, her gaze steady. "The Lannisters brought the game to our shores. I merely flipped the board."
Lyn chuckled, resting his hand on the silver pommel of Lady Forlorn. "When the time comes to finally march out of these mountains... make sure you point me at the largest army you can find. I want to see what happens when the Warlord of Runestone unleashes her storm on the world."
"When the time comes, Ser Lyn," Rhea promised quietly, "there won't be an army left for you to fight. Only the pieces."
The year 299 AC bled into 300 AC.
The War of the Five Kings ravaged the continent. The news reached the hidden council of the Vale in fractured, horrifying bursts. Stannis Baratheon was defeated at the Blackwater by the combined might of the Lannisters and the Tyrells. The Ironborn burned Winterfell.
And then, the darkest news of all arrived.
The Red Wedding. Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, was betrayed and slaughtered under guest right by the Freys and the Boltons, orchestrated by the cold, calculating hand of Tywin Lannister.
When the ravens brought the news to Runestone, Bronze Yohn Royce wept in the privacy of his godswood, mourning the son of his old friend Ned Stark.
Rhea did not weep. She knew it was coming. The canon timeline was a rigid, horrific script, and she had spent the last year fortifying the Vale against the fallout.
The Bronze and Iron Pact had been ruthlessly effective. Under the joint command of Andar Royce and Harrold Hardyng, the unified levies of the eastern lords had scoured the Mountains of the Moon. Without the continuous influx of Lannister steel, and utterly terrified of the "phantom bird" that had frozen their brethren, the mountain clans were decimated, driven back into the deepest, most inhospitable caves to starve during the winter.
Gulltown was isolated. The inland lords refused to sell their winter stores to the port city, driving prices sky-high and causing riots on the docks. Lord Grafton, terrified by the silent, crushing economic pressure and the unexplained destruction of his secret Lannister benefactors, had desperately sent envoys to Runestone begging to renegotiate trade terms, effectively surrendering his autonomy to the Pact.
The Vale was an impenetrable fortress, secured not by Lady Lysa's cowardice, but by Rhea Royce's ruthless engineering.
But as the winter winds howled outside the thick walls of the Runestone armory, Rhea knew the hardest part of the game was about to begin.
She stood at the massive granite anvil, her heavy leather apron dusted with soot. The fires of the forge roared, casting dancing orange light across her face. She was no longer a girl. She was a woman of sixteen, her body honed into a weapon of absolute, lethal precision, her mind a vault of impossible secrets.
Tywin Lannister had won the War of the Five Kings. He had crushed his enemies and secured the Iron Throne for his grandson. But he had failed in the Vale. His gold had been seized, his steel melted, and his smuggling ships sent to the bottom of the sea.
Tywin was a man who did not tolerate failure, and he did not tolerate defiance. He would not ignore the Vale forever.
More importantly, the architect of the realm's destruction was about to make his move. Petyr Baelish, having secured Harrenhal and the favor of the Crown, would soon be coming for Lysa Arryn. He would come to the Eyrie to claim his mad bride, bringing Sansa Stark with him, and he would attempt to usurp the power of the Vale right out from under the lords.
"Let him come," Rhea whispered to the glowing coals.
She raised her heavy shaping hammer, her muscles rippling as she brought it down on a billet of high-carbon steel.
CLANG.
Littlefinger thought he was the ultimate player of the game. He thought he could manipulate the honorable lords of the Vale by preying on their rigid traditions and their sworn oaths. He believed that chaos was a ladder.
CLANG.
Rhea didn't believe in ladders. She believed in structural integrity. She believed in load-bearing pillars, tensile strength, and the application of overwhelming force to critical weak points. Littlefinger was walking into a region that he thought was paralyzed by fear and honor. He didn't know that the Vale was secretly ruled by a shadow council of hardened veterans, armed with impenetrable armor, and guided by a Warlord who could literally freeze time.
She plunged the red-hot steel into the oil barrel. The aggressive, hissing scream of the quench filled the armory, thick yellow smoke billowing toward the ceiling.
She drew the blade out. It was dark, flawless, and deadly.
"Horus," Rhea called out softly.
From the dark rafters above the forge, the massive snow falcon descended, landing silently on the stone rim of the quenching trough. His intelligent, freezing eyes locked onto hers.
"The wolves are dead," Rhea said, staring at the dark steel in her tongs. "The lions are bloated on their own pride. And the mockingbird thinks he can fly into our mountains and claim our nest."
She turned the blade over, inspecting the edge.
"It is time to start building the traps, JoJo," Rhea murmured, a cold, terrifying smile touching her lips. "When Baelish arrives... we are going to nail his wings to the wall."