In a warm fire room deep within the Eyrie, Karl Stone—now bearing the title Warden of the East—attended a private meeting with the lords of the Vale. Notably absent from this gathering was the Lord of the Eyrie himself.
The assembled lords represented the collective interests of House Arryn. They had formed a temporary alliance and sworn solemn oaths before the old gods. Karl Stone acknowledged these vows in turn.
Before the meeting began, Karl had also eaten salt and bread in the presence of Robert Arryn and the gathered nobles, formally invoking the sacred laws of guest right. From that moment onward, neither side could harm the other during Karl's stay at the Eyrie.
This ritual alone was enough to ease much of the tension. Combined with the terrifying, inhuman strength Karl had displayed the previous day, the Vale lords felt no choice but to calm themselves and engage with him openly.
The warming room itself was modest in size. A roaring fireplace occupied one wall, its flames devouring thick logs and filling the room with comforting heat. Several small windows were set high into the stone walls, allowing light in while keeping the mountain winds at bay.
House Arryn's banner adorned the walls: a sky-blue falcon soaring beneath a white crescent moon. The pale stone bricks reflected the daylight so well that only a few candles were needed to illuminate the chamber.
To show respect for the meeting, Karl Stone had dressed formally.
He wore a knee-length robe of black velvet, secured with a golden belt inlaid with emeralds. Subtle golden embroidery lined the robe's edges, lending it a dignified stiffness. Thin strips of red silk were sewn discreetly into the shoulders and sleeves, visible only when he moved.
The robe's interior was fully lined with patterned red silk, causing flashes of crimson to ripple with each step Karl took before vanishing again.
This attire was one of many formal outfits Karl had commissioned during his years in the Free Cities. He rarely wore such clothing, preferring loose and practical garments. Wearing it now, in this role and setting, made him feel faintly awkward.
At the doorway, Karl adjusted the gilded longsword at his waist—the blade once wielded by the Kingslayer himself. Lowering his head slightly to clear the lintel, he entered the room.
He took his assigned seat, scanning the gathered nobles before nodding politely to each.
"Ser Karl Stone," Lady Anya Waynwood of Ironoaks asked gently, her aged face bearing a kind smile, "you wear no family sigil. Have you yet chosen one?"
Karl inclined his head toward her.
"King Robert only recently knighted me," he replied. "Given recent events, I have not yet had the time—or need—to establish a house."
No one reacted with surprise. All present understood that Karl Stone's elevation was inevitable. Once the war ended, he would receive lands and become a landed knight—perhaps even more.
Compared to the tension of the previous day's hall, the atmosphere in the warming room was noticeably relaxed. The lords displayed goodwill, openly and without concealment.
Recognizing this, Karl subtly shifted the sword at his waist further behind him.
He knew exactly where this respect came from—and he silently thanked Ser Vardis Egen for stepping forward when he had. Without that moment, subduing these proud nobles would not have been so easy.
"There are still many vacant lands in the Vale," Bronze Yohn Royce of Runestone said suddenly. "Runestone would welcome you as a neighbor."
Karl was briefly startled by the bluntness of the offer. Such tangible goodwill was far more meaningful than polite words.
"That would be an honor," Karl replied sincerely.
Bronze Yohn nodded once and fell silent, exchanging glances with the other lords.
At this moment, Jon Snow and Jory Cassel—whom Karl had stationed outside—quietly closed the heavy wooden door.
The crackling fire filled the room as Karl nodded again.
"Since everyone is present," he said evenly, "let us begin."
The lords straightened. All eyes fixed upon the young bastard who now spoke with the authority of the Iron Throne.
"First," Karl began, his tone firm, "I must ask: why has the Vale not responded to the King's call to war?"
The question was direct and deliberate.
The lords exchanged glances.
"We did respond," Lord Horton Redfort said sharply. "We simply did not march immediately."
"Then why," Karl pressed, "has neither King Robert nor the Hand received so much as a letter from the Vale?"
Expressions shifted. Several lords glanced instinctively toward the door.
Bronze Yohn stepped in.
"Raising troops in the Vale is not simple. The Mountains of the Moon protect us—but they also hinder us. Supplies, ships, mobilization—it all takes time."
Karl's gaze hardened.
"That is not sufficient. The King has seen neither troops nor intent."
After a tense pause, Bronze Yohn exhaled.
"Our forces are assembled at Runestone and Gulltown. If you give the order, Warden, we can sail immediately."
Still, something felt wrong.
Lady Anya Waynwood finally intervened.
"There is more," she said carefully. "While assembling our forces, events across the Narrow Sea began to concern us."
She spoke of mercenary movements. Of a vast Dothraki khalasar gathering in Pentos. Of Khal Drogo's marriage to Daenerys Targaryen.
Karl frowned. He already knew.
"And yet," Karl said slowly, "you did not inform the King?"
"We did," Lord Eon Hunter interjected. "Messages were sent—to King's Landing and to the North."
"From where?" Karl asked.
"The Eyrie," Lord Triston Sunderland replied.
At last, understanding dawned.
"So," Karl said quietly, "Lady Lysa summoned you all here."
Silence answered him.
Then Bronze Yohn sighed.
"Yes."
Behind closed doors, the truth emerged.
Lysa Tully, fueled by grief, paranoia, and jealousy, had misled the Vale into believing the Iron Throne had insulted House Arryn—and threatened it.
Karl listened in grim silence.
By the time the tale ended, he understood everything.
And yet…
None of it made sense.
Because someone, somewhere, had allowed this to happen.
And that frightened him more than war.
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