Rage did not overwhelm Karl Stone's mind.
Even after everything that had happened, he kept his promise. The soldier who had been willing to speak was spared and allowed to tell the Vale Lords everything he knew—every detail they demanded—without concealment or coercion.
The man now knelt on the cold stone floor before them. His armor, weapons, and insignia had all been stripped away, leaving him in nothing but a thin layer of clothing. His hands were bound behind his back, his face pale and drenched in sweat, eyes darting in panic as though he expected death at any moment.
Every word he spoke landed like a hammer blow.
Behind the closed doors of her chamber, Lysa Tully finally broke.
She screamed like a wounded animal, her shrill cries echoing through the Eyrie's white stone corridors. Red wine was swept from the table in a violent arc, splashing against the walls like blood. Exquisite ceramic vessels from the Free Cities shattered against the floor, reduced to worthless shards. A tall bookshelf crashed down with a thunderous sound, scattering scrolls and ledgers everywhere.
Her hair was disheveled, her eyes bloodshot and wild. She cursed everyone—Karl Stone, the Vale Lords, even her late husband—accusing them of treachery and betrayal, her voice hoarse and cracking as though she were weeping blood itself.
But madness, no matter how loud, could not erase truth.
Faced with living testimony and irrefutable evidence, Lysa Tully's final outburst could only end here.
The Vale Lords watched her with expressions of cold fury and revulsion. This was the widow of Jon Arryn, once the Lady of the Eyrie—now reduced to a raving figure willing to murder her own guests in a locked chamber.
No one spoke in her defense.
And more than anything, they were grateful.
Grateful that Karl Stone stood among them—this young man whose presence felt like the rebirth of a legendary blade, sharp and steady. Without him, none of them dared imagine what might have awaited them if Lysa Tully had truly succeeded.
Perhaps even the dragonfire of old Valyria would have seemed merciful compared to being burned alive in a sealed room, with oil and madness fueling the flames.
With the crime laid bare and guilt undeniable, the Vale Lords reached unanimous agreement.
Lysa Tully would be imprisoned.
The true authority of the Eyrie was stripped from her hands, effective immediately. Until a final judgment could be passed, the governance of the Vale would be temporarily replaced by a collective alliance of its major houses.
Ironically, the very bedchamber that had once symbolized Lysa Tully's authority became her prison.
At the same time, a sweeping purge took place across the Eyrie.
From the High Hall to the Waynwood Gate, every soldier, servant, and official connected to Lysa Tully was removed. None were spared scrutiny. Until each person's loyalty—and sanity—could be verified, no one was trusted.
Within a single hour, the Eyrie entered full lockdown.
Ravens took flight.
Orders reached the Bloody Gate in the name of Ser Brynden Tully, the Knight of the Gate, commanding it sealed completely. The mountain fortress was cut off from the outside world, isolated like an eagle's nest in the clouds.
Only once full control was secured did the Vale Lords gather again in the High Hall of the Eyrie.
This time, the Moon Door was shut tight.
The air was heavy, thick with blood and unspoken dread.
At the center of the hall sat Robert Arryn.
The young lord knew nothing of politics, betrayal, or murder. He only knew fear.
Curled upon the ancient weirwood throne, his small body trembled. His large eyes, red from crying, darted from face to face, filled with terror.
Earlier that day, blood-stained men had burst into his chamber. Without explanation, soldiers had ripped him from his mother's arms while he was still nursing. He had been carried away despite his screams, locked alone in an empty room, ignored no matter how loudly he cried.
And now, he was here.
Ser Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—walked forward, his steps slow and heavy. Seeing the child like this twisted something in his chest.
"This will pass, my lord," Brynden said softly, placing a hand on the boy's head. "We will take care of everything."
Robert Arryn sniffled, clinging instinctively to him.
The Blackfish lifted the boy into his arms. As he turned to leave, he glanced at the assembled Vale Lords. His expression remained composed, but inwardly he sighed.
As Robert's great-uncle, and one of the few blood relatives he had left, Brynden was trusted. No one objected when it was agreed that he would temporarily care for the young duke.
Brynden himself declined to attend further political discussions. He claimed he was unqualified—but the truth was simpler.
The images still haunted him.
The slick mixture of blood and grease on the stairs. The severed limbs littering the corridor. The realization that a single madwoman had nearly dragged the entire Vale into hell.
As Brynden left with Robert Arryn—now quiet, no longer crying—the hall fell silent.
All eyes turned to Karl Stone.
Only now did the Vale Lords truly grasp how close they had come to disaster. Had Lysa Tully succeeded, the Vale would have been plunged into chaos. Its leadership annihilated in one night. A power vacuum at the worst possible moment, with the Seven Kingdoms already teetering on the edge of war.
Cold fear crept into their spines.
But Karl Stone saw more than they did.
He suspected a hidden hand behind this madness—but without evidence, he could say nothing. Littlefinger's shadow lingered in his thoughts, but even Karl could not yet see the full picture.
After a long pause, Karl rose and approached the weirwood throne.
Taking a deep breath, he turned and sat.
"The matter of Lady Lysa Tully has been handled," Karl said evenly. "As for her final punishment, that decision belongs to the Iron Throne."
This was his first declaration.
Despite their anger, the Vale Lords did not object. Neither they nor Karl—an outsider, even as Warden of the East—had the authority to pass final judgment.
Even if Karl could have executed her on the spot, he chose restraint.
Jon Arryn's will still held weight.
And more importantly—there were reasons Karl did not speak aloud.
"No objection," the Vale Lords agreed. "Let the Iron Throne judge her crimes."
Relief flickered through the hall.
Karl nodded, then continued.
"Now," he said calmly, "what are your thoughts regarding the future placement of Lord Robert Arryn?"
Silence fell once more.
This was the true question.
Robert Arryn was the sole heir of House Arryn—the fragile pillar upon which the Vale's future rested. His poor health and young age only deepened their concern.
Suggestions were hesitant, uncertain.
"Should Lord Robert be sent to King's Landing?" one minor lord finally ventured.
The response was immediate rejection.
King's Landing was a nest of vipers. The Vale trusted it no longer.
Arguments rose and fell, then faded into uneasy quiet.
"Could Lord Royce raise him?" someone suggested.
Bronze Yohn Royce considered it carefully before shaking his head.
"War approaches," he said heavily. "I cannot take that risk."
Then Lady Anya Waynwood spoke.
"I propose that Lord Robert follow Karl Stone."
Every gaze snapped toward Karl.
"Me?" Karl said, startled.
Lady Anya smiled faintly. "You are the Warden of the East. Strong, decisive. The Vale needs a strong heir—and we hope you can help make him one."
After a long moment, Yohn Royce nodded.
"I agree," he said. "Lord Robert Arryn will be placed under Karl Stone's protection, with Ser Brynden Tully assisting."
It was the safest choice.
And so, the decision was made.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)