It had been within the quiet assumption of many Bronze Order members that with Ronan's return to Runestone... their next course of training would concern the sea.
More precisely, the handling of that great new ship of his... the Santa Ma-Rhea... fresh from its maiden voyage and already the talk of the Vale. And beyond.
Willam Royce had seen it with his own eyes and even had a hand in making bits of it... a vessel so large and strange that it seemed not just a product of shipwrighting but also sorcery.
Built of interlocking timbers and banded with bronze where the frame mattered most, it was a marvel to behold.
Oh, how it defied convention...
Amongst the Royces, who had always been warriors of mountain and stone... the sight of such great a ship resting in Runestone's harbor felt like a new age breaking upon their shores.
The Bronze Age he privately fashioned it to be.
To Willam's mind, such a ship demanded a new sort of discipline.
And so, he had thought much on what must be learned to handle such a beast of wood and bronze... or at least been told of what must he learn.
Like how to read the wind, raise, reef, and trim canvas so that the ship answered swiftly to command.
There's steering and navigation... for the sea has no road nor border, only stars and current to mark the way.
Anchor handling and mooring to hold such weight steady against storm or tide.
Coordinating the crew. As for every order, it must be relayed in rhythm, else confusion turns to calamity.
One must not forget maintenance and repair... the care of rope, hull, and sail, lest one rotten line undo the whole.
Last but not least, was combat at sea... how to turn broadside, how to ram, and how to fight upon rolling decks without losing footing or blade.
Ronan, however, made it all seem effortless... explaining the ship's workings in the same casual way he once spoke of his toys.
And Willam, though born to the hills, found himself enthralled.
The idea of steering such a massive creation through open waters... of riding the waves like knights rode destriers... stirred something new in him.
He had even grown fond of the dragon boats that Ronan devised... long, narrow craft meant for swift rowing, their prows carved with bronze-painted dragon heads.
They were meant to serve as a contingency should the Santa Ma-Rhea be unable to dock in shallow waters. Little boats to be readied on the biggest of boats.
Each was to be manned by the Bronze Order, who will row with such rhythm and fury that their approach will look like an army of beasts swimming toward battle.
It was like jogging with cadence... but in water.
Ronan had even spoken of organizing dragon boat races at some point.
Much like the miniature carriage derbies he had once held to entertain children and visitors alike.
The notion made William intrigued, and he admired the ingenious ambition all the same.
Yet when the time came for their next great task as an Order of the Bronze, it was actually not to the sea that Ronan turned his gaze.
It was to the mountains.
For he had apparently been tasked by Lady Jeyne Arryn herself... to avenge the blood of her kin slain by the Stone Crows of the high passes.
The late Lord Arryn and her dead brothers, who should have taken the heavy responsibility she was forced upon.
A grudge long in the making... and she believed that it would be the Young Bronze who will appease her.
As even now, in spite of prior attempts, the Stone Crows remain mocking.
But as ever, Ronan sought to go further than any request required.
He did not mean to oust a single clan. He meant to catch them all. Like "Pokemon" as he muttered.
For the mountain clans and hill tribes had long plagued the Vale.
They were no mere bandits.
They were a way of life that refused to die.
Willam, like most Royces, had fought them before and knew well why they endured when so many kingdoms changed and fell.
The mountain clans are fearsome for many reasons...
They know every rock and ridge... almost as if the land itself fights for them. Even more so than Vale locals like them.
They even vanish like smoke after every striking... for their homes are caves, cracks, and secluded forests without road or map.
They also happen to travel light... living off what they steal or hunt... no supply line, no baggage, no burden. Leaving their settlements at the first sign of insurmountable danger.
And they breed warriors young... teaching bow, sling, and jagged blades long before the septs or maesters teach the civilized squires-to-be.
And yes... they breed... inexhaustibly so with their wild wives or the unfortunate lass that they've taken captive. Meaning that their numbers never seem to dwindle… and even flourish at a certain point.
By then, they strike with greater fervor and apt cunning... preferring ambush to open war. Setting traps when they can.
Accordingly, most of them just have nothing to lose... and so, they mostly fear nothing.
Only living and surviving with an ancestral feud that they just can't let go. Fostering new hatred with the civilized folks of the Vale with the passing of each generation.
Making it so that there's plenty of reason why they stood the test of time.
The Houses of the Vale had endured their raids for centuries... centuries and more with the lords and ladies of the Vale having no choice but to get used to it.
So when Ronan claimed that their Order of the Bronze, only over a thousand strong, could eradicate the troubles of the Vale completely... Willam thought him half-mad.
And yet… he had seen enough of the Young Bronze to know that what sounded like madness often turned to marvel.
If anyone could turn the Vale's plague of troubles into clean victories, it would be Ronan Royce...
The former bastard who they said dreamed too high... yet still made the world bend a little closer to meet what he is owed.
Like the Targaryen troubles that remained unresolved even after that king-requested trip... but Willam did not doubt that Ronan will eventually claim a satisfying end to such qualms.
In his own terms at that.