The Red Dragon
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31. Lord of Runestone
🕑 Added 2025-05-21 17:58:42 +0000 UTCThe Lord of Runestone
Yohn Royce was making his way to the Great Hall of the Twins, once the infamous keep of the breakers of sacred guest rights. The honor of the Valemen was known throughout the realm, be it among smallfolk or noble lords. So naturally, when they heard how the Freys and Lannisters had broken laws older than either house—sacred laws—without fear of retribution, Yohn and his fellow lords had considered marching from the Bloody Gate themselves to deliver justice.
But honor binds, and so do oaths. They had sworn fealty to their liege lord, Robert Arryn. A command from one’s liege is not easily ignored, and Yohn Royce was not a man to break his word.
Who would’ve thought that their chance to send the Freys to the Seven Hells would come not from the Vale, but from a Targaryen?
Even now, Yohn found it hard to believe that Eddard Stark—whom he had hunted with on countless occasions, be it for game or mountain clansmen—had deceived his brother-in-arms, Robert Baratheon. But even more shocking was the revelation that their new king was a Targaryen—not a Snow, nor a Sand. Had the claim come from any southern kingdom, Yohn would’ve dismissed it outright. But the Northern lords? They did not play the game like southern courtiers. And if that wasn’t enough, His Grace had promised to soon provide further proof.
Yet, Yohn doubted it would matter. The king had already offered proof enough: proof in the form of a dragon. He could claim the Iron Throne by the same right as Aegon the Conqueror—by right of might. And that might had been displayed for all to see at Riverrun. Dragons—Yohn had never dreamed he would live to see one, let alone witness their power firsthand.
When he first laid eyes on the beast of His Grace, he understood why the Targaryens were once thought closer to gods than men. Power in its purest form—that was how Yohn would describe it. The Targaryens had been fools to lose them, and to civil war, no less. But that was in the past. Dragons now soared across the skies of Westeros once more, and all would kneel before them again.
Because, truly, Yohn saw no force in the Seven Kingdoms that could stand against them. All the kingdoms were bled dry—only the armies of Dorne and the Vale remained untouched. And if history proved anything, it was that dragons changed the tides of war. It was no secret. Once the lords of Westeros laid eyes on His Grace’s dragon, Yohn doubted even the Dornish would stir much trouble.
But it wasn’t the Dornish that worried Yohn—it was the threat beyond the Wall, the one the children of the forest had warned of. He snorted. Dragons, the children of the forest, white walkers—and Maesters still preached that magic was gone from the world. So much for learned men.
His Grace had spoken of a second coming of the Age of Heroes, but Yohn could see no heroes among them save one: the king himself. Strength unmatched even by the likes of Sandor Clegane, and speed to match it—gifts that spoke of something more than mortal blood.
Yohn took a deep breath before entering the great hall. Age had caught up to the Lord of Runestone, and he longed to join his dear wife. But oaths—old oaths sworn to see his liege’s progeny become a competent and honorable Lord of the Vale—kept him going. Let no one say that the Royces of Runestone did not keep their word.
With a straight back, Yohn entered the hall and made his way to the throne where his king was seated. He gave a respectful bow and exchanged pleasantries, then got straight to the point.
“Maester Helliweg said that you summoned me here, Your Grace.”
“Yes, yes, Lord Royce,” His Grace began. “You see, I have sent ravens to all the Riverlords, calling them to join us on our march to Harrenhal and to swear fealty to me. I am no fool, nor deluded enough to think they would eagerly bend the knee to a Targaryen—especially not after they rose in rebellion against my mad grandsire. And I did, after all, burn the keep of their liege lord… and perhaps their liege along with it. Yet, color me surprised when I received eager replies declaring their loyalty, brought to me by the Maester.”
His Grace wore that same unreadable expression Yohn had seen countless times on Eddard Stark. That cold mask was hard to see through.
“Isn’t that good news, Your Grace?” Yohn asked. “Perhaps your connection to Robb Stark—the king they once chose—played a part in their decision.” It was an afterthought, but a plausible one. Though he couldn’t help but wonder—did the Tullys truly inspire so little loyalty among their bannermen that, even after their castle burned, their vassals barely seemed to care?
“Wouldn’t it be too good to be true, Lord Royce?” the king said. “The reason their knees bent so easily is because the Riverlands are becoming lawless. Bandits and poachers roam freely. Combine that with their fields burned in the wars by the Lannisters, and so many of their men dead, they now seek to end this plague before too much is stolen—because winter is fast approaching. And they can’t do it alone. There’s little order left in the Riverlands ever since the Freys were named Lords Paramount. That’s why they asked me to cleanse their lands, and in return, they’ll swear fealty.”
The king sighed and laid Dark Sister across his lap. His violet eyes, the only mark of House Targaryen the young king inherited, met Yohn’s own.
Yohn drew a slow breath and chose his next words carefully.
“Well, it is up to you, Your Grace. You could choose to march on Harrenhal and leave the Riverlords to their fate—or you could choose to help them. But if I may be bold… if you are demanding their oaths on the basis of being a Targaryen or Robb Stark’s heir, then they are your subjects. And honor demands that a king protects his subjects. Aid them now, and they will never forget who came to their aid in their hour of need.”
Yohn studied his king’s face closely, searching for the smallest flicker of emotion. But the cold mask remained.
Time trickled by. What thoughts stirred behind that still gaze? Yohn would wager good gold that the young king would choose to help. During the feasts of the past days and the march from the Neck to the Twins, he had spoken with the king more than once of Eddard Stark’s days in the Vale. In those talks, the boy sometimes recalled his father teaching him to be just and honorable. Yohn had been proud to hear it. The Vale had been honored to foster a man as steadfast as Eddard Stark.
He was pulled from his musings when the king finally spoke.
“Even though I don’t need the Riverlands' support to storm King’s Landing,” the king began, “I agree with you. Helping one’s subjects is the honorable, just choice—and that is what I will do. We’ll discuss how to purge the Riverlands of this banditry in the war council.”
Yohn smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but the king raised a hand.
“But that’s not why I summoned you here. Petyr Baelish. That’s the reason you’re here.”
Yohn’s expression flickered at the mention of that snake’s name, though he quickly composed himself.
“What has Lord Baelish done, Your Grace? Has he committed some offense?”
“Offense?” The king laughed—a cold, joyless sound that sent a chill through the hall. “I’ll leave it to you to decide whether it was wrong or right, my lord. Where to begin…? Ah, yes. Let’s start with his first scandal with Lysa Tully at Riverrun...”
Yohn had never liked Littlefinger. The man was shifty, untrustworthy, and always too clever for his own good. But he had never suspected the depths of his treachery. The shock of all made his knees weak.
As the king spoke, detailing Baelish’s manipulations and crimes, Yohn felt his shock turn to simmering rage. That one man’s ambition and lust for vengeance had sown so much bloodshed and chaos… it was nearly unbearable. He clenched his fists, barely restraining himself from storming off to fetch Baelish and take his head then and there. But the king’s presence reminded him—Baelish’s punishment was not his alone to mete out.
Still, he could not remain silent.
“Give the word, Your Grace,” Yohn said, voice tight with fury. “Let me be the one to drag him into this hall myself. And I assure you, my king, the Vale and her lords had no hand, nor any knowledge, of the vile schemes that up-jumped Braavosi was weaving.”
