Rodrik sat in the great hall of Dunluce, eating his breakfast with quiet focus. The iron-born castles, even after their defeat, still smelled of salt and smoke, and the scent lingered despite all efforts to clean it away. Jaymee was off barking instructions to soldiers and helping the towns rebuild in the aftermath of their long siege. It was one of the few moments of peace Rodrik had managed in days.
The sound of soft footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor entered the hall, exchanging pleasantries with the guards. Rodrik stood politely as they approached, and a servant quickly laid out plates for the royal guests.
Rhaenyra smiled briefly as she sat down. "You've been up early again. Managing conquered lands isn't as relaxing as the stories make it sound?"
Rodrik offered a neutral smile. "War ends quickly. Aftermath takes years."
Laenor chuckled lightly. "He has a point."
As they ate, Rhaenyra looked up and asked casually, "When do you plan to leave the Iron Islands?"
Rodrik swallowed before replying, "When our work here is done—and when the king agrees to my request."
Her brow twitched slightly at that. Again, the mysterious request. She masked her concern behind a sip of wine.
"If that's the only thing holding you back," Rhaenyra said after a pause, "I could take you with me to King's Landing. Syrax can carry us both. You'd arrive faster, and I can help smooth the way."
Rodrik looked up from his meal, surprised by the offer. For a long second, he simply stared, trying to gauge her intention. But her face was neutral—courteous, diplomatic.
"That's… generous," he said. "I hadn't considered a dragon-back journey."
Rhaenyra smiled politely. "Think of it as a shortcut."
Rodrik gave a small nod. "Then I'll take you up on it."
The following day, Rodrik stood in the courtyard of Dunluce, his instructions to Jaymee completed, the last of his orders dispatched. Across the yard, Syrax preened her wings under the morning sun while Rhaenyra gently petted her neck. Her golden scales shimmered in the light.
Rodrik approached cautiously, his gaze warily fixed on the beast.
"She's not going to eat me, is she?" he asked, half-serious.
Rhaenyra glanced back with a calm smile. "Syrax only eats fools and liars."
Rodrik raised an eyebrow. "Not very comforting."
As he drew closer, Syrax turned her head slightly and sniffed the air. Rodrik paused, uncertain. His heart pounded in his chest. Though he was no coward, standing before a dragon stirred a primal fear.
Rhaenyra extended her hand to him. "Come. She knows me. If I say you're with me, she'll accept it."
He placed his hand over hers and followed her lead, step by step. As they neared Syrax's neck, Rhaenyra placed her hand on the dragon's scales and motioned for Rodrik to do the same.
The moment his fingers touched the warm, ridged skin, something ancient sparked within him—a quiet awe, a wordless connection to the creature's deep power. Syrax huffed but didn't move away.
With Rhaenyra's help, Rodrik hoisted himself into the saddle behind her. He felt uncertain, awkward, gripping the leather straps tightly.
"Hold on," she said simply.
Then Syrax moved.
With a mighty push of her hind legs, she launched into the sky. Rodrik's breath caught in his throat as wind tore at his face and the Iron Islands shrank below them. Sea foam glistened under the morning sun, scattered like stars across the ocean's dark surface. The sky was endless, blue and open. He had flown on ships, crossed mountains on horseback—but never had he seen the world from such a vantage point.
As Pyke faded into the mist, Rodrik looked out over the cliffs, his kingdom of stone and blood behind him, the capital of dragons ahead. The wind roared past his ears, but in that moment he was silent.
For the first time in months, maybe years, he felt free.
Rodrik arriven in kings landing was epic he never had such experience not even in his last life. Lord Hand was there to recieve him. They didn't had much talk maybe Viserys wanted to the first to speak with him regarding this.
He was taken to his chambers for rest. Then after some time he was taken to the throne room. Viserys was sitting in the iron throne Queen Alicent by his one side & Princess Rhaenerya & Lord Hand at the other.
Viserys " You have given us a lot of headache Lord Arryn, you have gone to war against another kingdom without crowns permission. What you have done is borderline treason. I could have you hanged for this".
Rodrik still kneeling " Yes your grace you could hang me , I could have asked for your permission but we both know I wouldn't get it. You have not seen what I had seen Your Grace. All that death , Rape, Mutilation. I could let it go on to be done to my people. Those people are under my protection & who ever tries to harm them I will remove from the face of this world" the last line he has said was said with such Strength & conviction that everyone in the throne room got silent.
In Viserys eyes there was some respect towards him as he was not fighting for his family or honour but for protecting his people. That was a trait many of the Lords in Westeros doesn't have.
Viserys tried to end the matter " What is this request I hear that you want to ask from me personally?"
Rodrik's silence lingered in the throne room like smoke.
" Your Grace, durinh Aegons conquest Vale kneeled in front of the drangons & I want to continue that I don't want a situation to come where my people had to face the dragons as their enemy" Rodrik asked.
Viserys & everone there got confused " Speak Plainly Lord Arryn".
" I believe that after your passing there will be war between Queen Alicent s Family & Princess Rhaenerya's family. I want the Crown's written permission, in the presence of both Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra, that should conflict ever arise between their factions, the Vale shall remain neutral—and that our neutrality will not be treated as oathbreaking." Rodrik explained.
Viserys sat in stunned silence.
The court chamber was still. Even the flickering of torchlight seemed to still itself, waiting on the king's voice.
Then came the thunder.
"You dare come to my court, after defying the Crown's order in the Iron Islands, after waging war without royal consent, and now… now you ask me to sign away your duty to the realm?!" Viserys roared. His face flushed with rage, and his voice echoed down the stone hall like a dragon's roar.
Rodrik stood his ground, calm but firm. "Your Grace, I hope such a day never comes. I pray the realm stays united under your rule and beyond. But the future is uncertain. And I will not have my people burned alive in a fire that is not of their making. If such a war ever does come, and I must refuse a call to arms, I want it known that I asked for your blessing beforehand & I am not trying to run from my duties Vale will always follow House Targeryen even you order me to go & conquer Essos I will do it without a second thought but I don't want my people to fight Dragons"
Viserys slammed his armrest. "This is treasonous talk! You speak of war within House Targaryen as if it were fate!"
Rodrik bowed his head slightly, not in submission, but with honesty. "I speak of possibilities, not certainties. And I mean no insult, Your Grace. If such a future never arrives, then the Crown loses nothing. But if it does, I will not be called an oathbreaker for choosing the safety of my people."
The silence returned, heavy and dense.
Viserys's breathing was heavy, his hands shaking. Then he spat the words like venom. "Fine. You want your Vale spared from dragonfire? So be it. You have your permission. But hear me now—leave King's Landing. Leave the Iron Islands. Return to the Vale before I do something I will regret."
Rodrik bowed again, this time deeper, knowing the weight of what had just passed. "As you command, Your Grace."
He turned and left the throne room. Behind him, the room remained frozen.
No one spoke.
Not Alicent. Not Rhaenyra. Not even Lord Strong. They all knew—what was said in that chamber could never be repeated outside of it.
---
Rodrik left King's Landing the next morning.
He did not speak to anyone on his way out. The streets bustled with commoners, the guards changed shifts, and the city went about its life as though the air had not shifted.
But Rodrik knew.
He knew that whatever goodwill he had with the king, with the royal family, had been forever strained. He had made his choice.
He had not made it lightly.
But in his heart, he knew it was necessary.
The social order of Westeros—the hierarchy of lords and kings, banners and oaths—was held together by one thing: trust in the word of honor.
And if war were to come, as he feared it might, he would not let the Vale be consumed by dragons, only to be called traitor afterward.
He would not be an oathbreaker.
Better to be resented now than damned later.