The Bloody Gate was never going to be an obstacle.
Not in law, and not in practice.
By rights, if the knights stationed at the Bloody Gate were strictly obeying the Lady of the Eyrie's orders, they could have barred Karl Stone's passage into the Vale of Arryn. Even the Lord of the Warden of the East had no absolute authority to enter the Eyrie's domain without permission, at least in theory.
But theory had little meaning when weighed against men.
And Ser Brynden Tully, known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the Blackfish, had no intention of enforcing an order he considered unreasonable—let alone humiliating to the Vale.
Thus, after allowing Karl to pass the Bloody Gate in the name of Lord Robert Arryn, Brynden made his decision. He gathered his belongings, selected a small personal retinue, and rode out alongside Karl Stone toward the Eyrie.
The mountain road was narrow and winding, flanked by cliffs that plunged into mist-filled ravines. The air grew thinner with every step forward.
"Ser Brynden," Karl said at last, glancing sideways at the knight riding beside him, "you really don't need to escort me personally."
His tone was mild, even friendly.
"There's no need for you to entangle yourself in this matter."
Karl smiled faintly—whether in reminder or in praise was unclear.
Brynden turned his head and studied him.
"And why do you think that?" he asked, curiosity plain in his voice, though his eyes held careful scrutiny.
Karl only shrugged and returned his gaze to the road ahead.
The silence that followed lingered longer than Brynden expected. Karl neither elaborated nor even acknowledged the question further.
That silence, more than words, stirred Brynden's interest.
"I've heard about what's been happening to you lately," Brynden said eventually.
Karl replied without looking at him.
"Then do you resent the King for naming me Lord of the Warden of the East?"
The question landed cleanly—sharp, direct, and intentional.
Brynden fell silent again.
Nearly half a minute passed before he answered.
"That was the King's authority," he said slowly.
"And his duty."
"I do not question his judgment, nor do I hold an opinion on the matter. Such decisions are not mine to weigh."
Karl smiled at that.
"But clearly," he said, "not everyone in the Vale thinks as you do."
Brynden gave a faint, weary nod. He knew better than most how divided the Vale had become.
"King Robert made it clear," Brynden continued, "that you are to act as Lord of the Eyrie only until young Robert Arryn comes of age. Once he matures, authority returns to him."
"That is a reasonable arrangement."
"And by my reckoning, what you've done so far has already proven your competence."
Karl finally turned to look at him.
"Oh?" he said with mild surprise. "So that's how you see me."
Brynden's expression hardened.
"That is my personal view," he said firmly. "It does not represent others."
Karl chuckled softly.
"But what if I choose not to return that power?" he asked.
"What if King Robert has other intentions?"
"Isn't that precisely what the lords of the Vale fear?"
Three questions—each sharper than the last.
Brynden frowned.
This was the heart of the matter, and they both knew it.
Yet it was not a discussion a knight of the Bloody Gate could afford to have openly. The politics of kings and councils lay far above his station.
"I am a knight," Brynden said at last. "I do my duty."
Karl's expression softened.
"Yes," he said quietly. "You are."
He studied Brynden for a moment before adding,
"And I need your help."
By the time they reached Moon Gate Castle, the sun was already dipping behind the peaks.
Nestled at the foot of the Giant's Lance, Moon Gate Castle guarded the road to the Eyrie itself. Moats encircled its walls, square towers rose from solid stone foundations, and narrow guardhouses flanked the gate.
Karl felt a strange blend of familiarity and distance as he passed beneath its arch.
He had lived here for a year.
Yet somehow, the six months he had spent in King's Landing felt more real.
The Eyrie, once his entire world, now felt like a place suspended in memory—beautiful, distant, and unreal.
Moon Gate Castle was larger than the Eyrie itself. In winter, when snow buried the heights, the Arryns descended here until spring returned.
Karl knew every corridor.
But the man waiting to receive him was unfamiliar.
Or rather—unwelcome.
Nestor Royce, the longtime Grand Steward of the Vale, stood rigidly in the courtyard. He was a broad-chested man, bald, with streaks of white in his beard and a small birthmark near his cheek.
He had served House Arryn faithfully for fourteen years.
He had also once offered to resign.
"Karl Stone," Nestor said flatly.
No title.
No courtesy.
Karl inclined his head slightly.
"Grand Steward Royce. It's been some time."
Nestor's eyes were sharp, his resentment poorly concealed.
"Are you here to welcome me?" Karl asked politely.
"I suppose so," Nestor replied stiffly.
"Then I'll trouble you," Karl said calmly. "I have much to do."
The lack of deference was unmistakable.
Nestor's expression darkened. He glanced toward Brynden Tully, standing just behind Karl.
"Apologies," Nestor said, voice clipped. "It is late. Lord Robert Arryn is resting and will not receive guests."
"You may stay here tonight. Tomorrow, I will convey your request."
Before Brynden could object, Hall, Karl's sworn sword, stepped forward.
"You stand before the Lord of the Warden of the East," Hall said coldly. "Mind your respect."
Nestor bristled.
Karl raised a hand.
"This is the place where I was raised," he said evenly.
"For Lord Jon Arryn's sake, I will show restraint."
Then his gaze hardened.
"But understand this, Grand Steward Royce: I do not come here as a private man."
"I represent the Iron Throne's inquiry into the Vale."
"You will report my arrival truthfully."
"And ensure my men are properly housed."
With that, Karl turned and walked away—without waiting for consent.
Nestor Royce stood alone in the courtyard, his jaw tight with humiliation.
The next morning, the ascent began.
From Moon Gate, the road climbed steeply toward the Bloody Gate, then onward to Snow Castle, and finally Sky Castle.
The path narrowed with every fortress.
At Sky Castle, the way became perilous—stone steps worn smooth by centuries of wind and frost. Massive piles of boulders stood ready to be loosed upon attackers, capable of triggering avalanches.
Karl marveled again at the impossible construction.
This was a miracle of architecture—or madness.
From Sky Castle, the Eyrie rose another six hundred feet above, accessible only by a narrow mountain path or a wooden basket winched by chain.
Karl chose the path.
"I hate this place," Hall muttered halfway up.
Jon Snow said nothing, eyes wide with awe.
He had known only Winterfell's snows.
This place was something else entirely.
Samwell Tarly followed behind, pale but exhilarated, his mind racing through every account of the Eyrie he had ever read.
At last, the white stone towers emerged from the clouds.
The Eyrie.
Waiting for them stood a woman with fierce blue eyes and tangled auburn hair.
She clutched a sickly boy tightly to her chest.
Lysa Tully.
And Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie.
The Eagle's Nest had claimed its guests.
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