Rodrik sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the flame flickering in the hearth. The soft crackling of burning wood was the only sound between them. Yobert had laid out his reservations—logical, cautious, grounded in decades of noble rule.
Rodrik's jaw tightened. Then, slowly, he turned his eyes to Yobert.
"Let me ask you something," he said quietly.
Yobert glanced at him, sensing the shift in tone.
"We rule over thousands, don't we? Over castles, ports, roads, and fields. But tell me, what kind of luxuries do we really enjoy?"
Yobert raised a brow but said nothing.
Rodrik went on, voice rising with every sentence.
"We still shit in chamber pots. Someone still has to carry our filth from our rooms."
"We still write with feathers we have to dip over and over again in ink."
"Our wives still die in childbirth—and even when they don't, we hold our breath until we're sure they'll live."
"When we travel, it's on uncomfortable hardback horses or inside carriages that feel like prisons with wheels."
"At night, we still light candles—in our grand castles! Because we don't have a better way."
"And when we ride out of these castles, we see dirty roads. Hungry smallfolk. Sick children. Dead mothers."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air.
"We live like kings," Rodrik said bitterly, "in a kingdom of rot."
Yobert was still.
Rodrik leaned forward, his voice now calm—controlled—but burning with fire beneath the surface.
"Do you think these problems will be solved by the current system?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"We rule over animals, Yobert. Stronger, faster, wilder animals. But they shape themselves to the world. We shape the world to ourselves. That's why we rule. Because of progress."
"But look at us. We've stopped progressing."
His voice was filled with contempt now—not for Yobert, but for the world they lived in.
"All the knowledge we need to fix these things? Locked away in the Citadel. Hoarded. Taught only to a few nobles, most of whom care more about wine and war than invention. And even the bright minds at the Citadel fight a losing battle against a council of old men scared of change. Old goats clinging to a crumbling wall."
He stood now, the fire catching the light in his eyes.
"If this continues, we'll never become what we're meant to be. Not as lords. Not as a realm. Not even as a species."
Yobert listened quietly.
"That's why we must spread this knowledge," Rodrik said. "That's how we find the doctors who'll cure our diseases. The accountants who'll manage our wealth. The teachers who'll raise the next generation of builders, not just lords. People who'll do the work—so we, as nobles, can finally enjoy life as we should."
There was a pause. Then Rodrik added:
"I have a plan."
Yobert's brow furrowed, but he didn't interrupt.
"We'll start here. Just in our lands. In the Eyrie."
He stepped closer, voice full of resolve.
"We'll invite every apostate the Citadel has ever exiled—men who dared to challenge the system. We'll bring in experts from Essos if we must. And we'll build an academy. A place where people are trained by skill and interest, not birth."
He took a breath and laid out his strategy:
"We'll recruit and pay these teachers—apostates, healers, engineers, anyone with knowledge—to train people of all ages. Tailored education based on what they're good at and passionate about."
"We'll keep making money from my inventions. Shipbuilding, trade routes, tools—and in every venture, we'll include nobles. Make them rich. Make them invested."
"And slowly, steadily, we'll increase our armed forces. Not enough to alarm anyone, but enough to secure ourselves when the time comes."
Rodrik's voice softened.
"This will take ten years. Ten years of patience, secrecy, and relentless work. But when we emerge… we won't ask the Vale to follow us."
He looked directly at Yobert.
"They'll beg to."
Yobert sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The firelight danced across his face, revealing an expression mixed with pride, worry… and fear.
After a long silence, he said nothing about the plan. Nothing about the risks. He didn't argue. He didn't reason.
He simply looked toward the heavens and whispered, "Seven save us… from the storm we are about to stir."