When Ser Karl Stone appeared at the gates of the Eyrie, Lysa Tully did not greet him.
Her face was cold, her lips pressed tightly together, and not a single word left her mouth. She did not even spare him a glance. Instead, she abruptly grabbed Robert Arryn—who had been about to speak—and pulled him close, her eyes filled with undisguised hostility.
Without looking back, she turned and strode toward the castle through the main gate.
Karl watched her retreating figure and sighed softly.
He offered a gentle smile to the boy, who, despite being dragged away, kept glancing back at him with unmistakable curiosity and excitement.
Karl had lived in King's Landing for half a year and had dealt frequently with Lord Jon Arryn. Of course he knew both mother and son. Robert's earlier expression—bright, eager—was the reaction of a child seeing someone familiar.
But Karl also understood something clearly.
To Lysa Tully, he was no longer a guest.
He was an enemy.
The sound of Alyssa's Tears echoed through the mountain air as Karl watched the Lady of the Eyrie disappear from sight. Then he turned to Jon Snow and the others.
"Let's go," Karl said calmly. "Follow me."
The High Hall of the Eyrie was long and austere.
Blue-veined white marble formed the walls, polished smooth by centuries of wind and cold. At the far end stood the high seat of House Arryn—a throne carved from pale weirwood, ancient and solemn.
Narrow arched windows lined both sides of the hall, iron sconces between them holding torches that flickered violently. Cold wind howled upward from below, slipping through cracks and carrying with it the faint roar of the valley far beneath.
The Moon Door stood open.
It was a narrow weirwood door set between two slender pillars, its surface carved with the shape of a crescent moon. Beyond it lay nothing but open air. Through the doorway, one could clearly see the jagged rocks of the valley floor six hundred feet below.
Samwell Tarly noticed it immediately.
A shiver ran down his spine as the cold wind rushed past him. Stories he had read flooded his mind—tales of criminals and traitors cast through that door to their deaths.
Why was it open?
Sam swallowed hard and instinctively took a step back, hiding behind Jon Snow, afraid to ask.
Karl also spared the Moon Door a brief, cautious glance. Then his eyes shifted to the people seated beneath the throne.
Nearly twenty nobles sat upon wooden stools arranged in two lines. Though their clothing varied in color and style, each wore a sigil proudly displayed upon chest or cloak, marking their family allegiance.
The Lords of the Vale—men and women, young and old—watched Ser Karl Stone enter with expressions ranging from curiosity to open hostility.
Karl's gaze passed over them calmly.
Then he looked up.
Lysa Tully was ascending the steps to the throne, Robert Arryn clutched at her side. She seated herself, pulling the boy close, and then—without warning—reached beside the throne.
Steel rang softly.
She drew a longsword and laid it across her lap.
At once, the atmosphere in the hall shifted.
Everyone present—save Karl—grew solemn. Even Brynden Tully's expression darkened.
In the Seven Kingdoms, the meaning was unmistakable.
To receive a guest with a drawn blade was a denial of hospitality.
It was a declaration of hostility.
"Lady Lysa," Ser Brynden Tully said sharply, his voice echoing in the hall, "this is not the etiquette of House Arryn."
The bluntness of his words bordered on insult.
Lysa's eyes snapped toward him.
Already seething with jealousy and fury, she sprang to her feet as though stung. Snatching up the sword, she pointed it directly at Karl Stone, who stood less than three paces from the open Moon Door.
"The etiquette of House Arryn is reserved for friends," she hissed. "Not for baseborn bastards who humiliate the Falcon of the Vale!"
"Do not forget the words of House Arryn!"
Her voice rang sharp and shrill.
For a moment, Brynden Tully felt as though her accusation had struck him as well. He stepped forward instinctively, placing himself between Lysa's blade and Karl.
"What humiliation?" Brynden snapped.
"If you speak of the Warden of the East, then know this—the King has the right to grant titles as he sees fit!"
His face flushed red with anger as he glared at his niece.
Before the argument could escalate further, Karl reached out and rested a hand on Brynden's shoulder.
"Thank you, Ser Brynden," Karl said evenly.
His expression was calm—almost amused.
Brynden turned to look at him. After a brief struggle, understanding dawned in his eyes. He sighed and stepped aside.
Karl took a slow step forward.
His gaze deepened, and his voice carried clearly through the hall.
"I, Ser Karl Stone," he said, "stand before you in the name of Robert Baratheon the First—King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"And I speak as the Lord of the Warden of the East, so titled by King Robert Baratheon."
Silence followed.
The gloating expressions vanished. Noble eyes flicked from side to side. Unease crept in.
They had expected a boy.
Not this.
The silence broke when an elderly man rose slowly to his feet.
He wore a robe bearing a sigil of bronze runes upon an orange field. His face was deeply lined, his gray eyes sharp beneath heavy brows.
"Ser Karl Stone," he said, bowing slightly. "I greet you in the name of the King."
His voice was strong despite his age.
Karl recognized him instantly.
Yohn Royce—Bronze Yohn, Lord of Runestone.
Karl returned the bow.
"The honor is mine, Lord Royce."
Once Royce moved, the rest followed.
Reluctantly or not, every noble in the hall rose and offered their greetings. Karl answered each in turn, naming their houses correctly, his courtesy flawless.
As he spoke, tension melted like ice under the spring sun.
Only Lysa Tully remained rigid.
Karl finally turned to her.
"Lady Lysa," he said politely, "my condolences on the passing of Lord Jon Arryn."
His eyes flicked briefly to the sword still in her grasp.
The implication was clear.
Her face twisted with fury.
"You are all traitors!" she screamed, turning on her vassals. "Robert Baratheon insults House Arryn by naming a bastard Warden of the East!"
Her voice grew shrill as she waved the sword wildly.
"What do you intend to do? Betray your liege?"
Karl stepped forward.
Steel sang as he drew his sword.
His blade pointed directly at Lysa Tully.
The hall froze.
"I have come to the Vale by royal command," Karl thundered. "And I now ask this plainly."
"Does House Arryn intend to defy the Iron Throne?"
The words struck like a hammer.
Fear flashed in Lysa's eyes. She collapsed back onto the throne, sword slipping from her fingers.
Robert Arryn began to cry.
At last, Bronze Yohn stepped forward again.
"The Vale stands loyal to the Iron Throne," he declared.
Then he knelt.
"The House of Royce will follow your command."
As his knee hit stone, another sword rang free.
"Who gave you the right," a voice shouted, "to draw steel in the Eyrie against its Lady?!"
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