What was notable was that few lords had dared try to raid their neighbors under cover of banditry, and those who had were defeated, taken prisoner, and brought to the Eyrie, where they waited for judgment. They could rest in the sky cells until Father returned and decided their fate.
Why did I not execute them outright? Because I did not want to make a mistake. Managing men is far harder than managing Orcs. My Doctrine of Fear risked turning other lords against the Arryns, which could have damaged the rebellion in ways I was not prepared to risk.
When the Redfort-Royce army reached Grey Glen, the castle surrendered. Lord Tollett was put in chains and sent to the Eyrie. His heir, Andrew Tollett, was dispatched to Runestone as a hostage.
After that, the Vale went still. The bannermen brought no open rebellion against the Arryns. The middling and minor houses, after watching what happened to the Tolletts, could not find the courage to follow their example.
The Battle of the Stoney Sept came and went, and I finally learned what had become of Robert. The not knowing had been gnawing at me terribly, for I love Robert in a way that is entirely genuine. Heartening news reached the Eyrie: the armies of the North and the Riverlands had shattered Connington's force. Things were falling into place: the loyalist army was broken, the rebel armies had joined into one fist, and the loyalists had no figure left who could rally their remaining strength in this dark hour.
Our army had to regroup and recover from the relentless fighting, but in that window Prince Rhaegar returned. He gathered the remnants of the Targaryen cause and assembled an army of forty thousand. All of Westeros held its breath and waited for the outcome of the final battle. I waited too, and I was afraid for the lives of those I cared for. The last several days had left me strung tight. Even fine food, a soft bed, and the books I had been denied as a Nazgûl could not quiet my worry.
In 283 AC a raven arrived. I was hearing petitions in the great hall at the time. Toward midday old Maester Bart came trotting up with surprising speed for his age and pressed a letter into my hands. Every lord present held their breath and waited for me to speak. When I finished reading, it felt as though something holding me upright had simply been removed. Seeing how I must have looked to them, I composed myself and addressed the hall.
"In the deciding battle at the Trident, the rebel army of thirty-five thousand swords under the command of Lord Baratheon met the royal army of forty thousand swords under the command of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Despite being outnumbered, we won. Robert Baratheon slew Prince Rhaegar himself in single combat. Congratulations."
Applause and cheering rang through the hall. And I found myself hoping, more than anything, that I would see my father, Uncle Yohn, Robert, Ned, and the rest of my friends again soon.