We did not return to Ironoaks the next day. The work in the mountains was only half-finished, and a hasty departure would sow the seeds of the very rebellion we had just quelled. Peace, I was learning, was a fragile structure that required more careful labor than any fortress.
Lord Morton issued a proclamation throughout his lands, calling for families to settle the newly secured territory. They would receive timber and silver to build new homes and steady work in the logging camps we were establishing. It was a practical solution—mingling his own smallfolk with the clans would weave new alliances, slowly strangling the old hatreds.
We implemented new orders for the combined community. Cleanliness was mandated, not as a punishment, but as a measure of health and a symbol of a new beginning. Men who chose to marry clan women received a silver incentive to build their households. The initial tension gradually gave way to a busy, if awkward, coexistence. The clan women, many of whom had known little but hardship, seemed cautiously receptive to men who offered stability instead of constant violence.
A full month passed before we could consider departing. In that time, we laid the foundation for Donnell's new keep, built the first hundred houses for the settlers, and began the back-breaking work of carving a proper road down the mountainside. The sound of hammers and saws now echoed where once only war cries had been heard.
I also took Morna, the fiery daughter of the former chief, under my charge. Her rage was a weapon that needed redirecting. I trained her in disciplined swordsmanship, channeling her raw strength into controlled skill. Lord Morton, recognizing her potential and the political value of the gesture, agreed she would serve as an additional sworn shield for his mother—a living bridge between the old ways and the new.
After two months, we finally marched for home. The column that descended from the mountains was far different from the one that had ascended—weary, but accompanied by wagons of timber and the fragile prize of a hard-won peace.
Lady Anya stood on the steps of Ironoaks to welcome her son's return. Her posture was as regal as ever, a testament to the strength that had held her house together through tragedy.
"Ser Julius," she said, her voice carrying the formal tone of a lord addressing a valued ally. "House Waynwood owes you a debt. You have secured our borders and restored our honor."
"The victory is Lord Morton's, my lady," I replied with a slight bow. "I merely provided the strategy. Your son led with the courage and wisdom worthy of his line."
She gave a single, approving nod. It was the clear, professional respect between a ruler and a knight who had fulfilled his charge.
I presented Morna to her. "This is Morna. She has the heart of a warrior and has sworn to serve as your shield."
Lady Anya assessed the wild-haired girl with a critical but not unkind eye. "Very well. You will be treated fairly and trained properly. Serve me well, and you will have a place here." It was the voice of a ruler, not a potential lover. Morna gave a stiff, grudging nod of acceptance.
The next two days were spent in Lord Morton's solar, immersed in the dry but vital work of governance—planning the grain shipments for the new settlement, discussing tax incentives for the loggers, and mapping the next phase of the road construction.
It was there that the peace we had just bought with blood and sweat was shattered.
Maester Lomas burst into the solar, his face pale as milk, clutching three raven scrolls. The seals told the story before he could speak: the falcon of Arryn, the burning tower of Grafton, and the three-headed dragon of the Crown.
We read them in a silence that grew heavier with each word.
Lord Rickard Stark, burned alive. Brandon Stark, strangled to death before his father's eyes while trying to save him. The Mad King Aerys now demanded the heads of Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Robert Baratheon from Jon Arryn.
The final scroll was from Lord Grafton of Gulltown, declaring for the Crown and commanding all Valelords to join him in putting down the "rebellious" Lord Arryn.
Morton looked up from the parchments. The young lord I had sparred with was gone, replaced by a man forged in the mountains. His face was a mask of cold, clean fury.
"Lord Arryn has called his banners," he said, his voice dangerously calm. He looked to Ser Robar, who had entered behind the Maester. "Grandfather, sound the horns. Every knight and man-at-arms we can muster. We ride for the Eyrie by dawn. Lord Grafton will answer for his treason."
He then turned to me. "Ser Julius. Your path lies with Robert Baratheon. I release you from any further obligation to my house. You have more than fulfilled our contract."
I felt a familiar, grim clarity settle over me. The waiting was over. The war I had known was coming had finally arrived.
"The Vale cannot fight on two fronts," I said, thinking aloud. "Gulltown is a dagger at your back. Let me take a hundred of your best men. I will ride for the Riverlands, find Robert, and help secure his flank. It serves both our causes."
Morton held my gaze, the lord weighing the value of a seasoned commander and a hundred good men against the battle to come. After a moment, he gave a sharp nod. "Take them. And take my thanks with you. The Seven go with you, Julius."
"And with you, Morton."
As I strode from the solar to choose my men, the reality of the situation settled in my gut. The game of borders and clans was over. The long-awaited storm had broken, and the mountains of the Vale were already fading behind me, replaced by the specter of a far greater, bloodier battlefield.