TitoVillar
patreon
GOT Chapter 117: Buried Truths, Rising Storms
🕑 Added 2025-09-02 01:53:06 +0000 UTCIf, by leveraging certain pieces of information, those behind the scenes had truly caused the Vale to see the Iron Throne in a different light—
Then his suspicions were not without basis.
A storm of emotions churned in his chest. Kal’s expression grew heavy as he lifted his gaze toward the assembled nobles.
After all, let alone others—even if he placed himself in their shoes, without that god’s-eye perspective he now possessed, he too would have arrived at the same thoughts.
Perhaps, given his own abilities, he might even have acted more extremely.
One had to remember—Jon Arryn, the previous Hand, had given his head, his blood, his very life for the Iron Throne. He had exhausted everything he had to give.
It was he who helped Robert Baratheon seize the realm as it now stood—overthrowing the Targaryen dynasty that had ruled Westeros for centuries, and seating him upon the throne.
And thereafter, their liege lord Jon Arryn devoted his entire life, right up to his death, to the service of the Iron Throne.
But what, Kal wondered, had the Vale truly gained from all of this?
Jon Arryn’s loyalty and patriotism were beyond dispute, and the Vale followed his example faithfully.
Yet the man who now sat the throne cared only for his own pleasures once he had become king—living in indulgence, courting death by revelry.
Even when Jon Arryn breathed his last upon his office—
He had been slain, betrayed in a vile conspiracy, by his own queen in collusion with members of the Kingsguard.
And the cause of it all was nothing more than that this pitiable old man had uncovered certain secrets about the king’s heirs and the Iron Throne.
But before Jon Arryn’s bones had even grown cold, this very king whom they had raised up—Robert Baratheon—sought to send the Vale’s last remaining heir, the Arryns’ only trueborn bloodline, into the hands of the Lannisters who had murdered their liege lord, to be raised as their fosterling.
No—that was not accurate. More precisely, he would have been a hostage, or even a prisoner.
The only reason this did not come to pass was because Lady Lysa Tully resisted, fleeing back to the Vale on her own. For that, she seemed to have suffered such a terrible shock that her mind grew unbalanced.
Even so, apart from inheriting the title of lord that was rightfully his by law, Jon Arryn’s only son was stripped of what had always belonged to him: the title of Warden of the East.
That seat had forever been held by House Arryn.
In truth, everything Robert Baratheon had done—seen from another angle—showed that not one of his actions repaid the Vale, much less House Arryn of the Eyrie, who had sacrificed so much for him.
And upon that foundation, perhaps only the smallest of “misunderstandings” would be enough to strike a spark whose consequences must inevitably explode.
The lords of the Vale, humiliated and enraged, were not meek lambs to be shorn, nor fish to be butchered at another’s whim.
They had once had the courage to overthrow one dynasty. They would have the courage to overthrow another.
Perhaps they would never ally with the Lannisters. But they would certainly become enemies of Robert Baratheon.
The moment it reached this point, the game had become a dead end.
The truth would be buried beneath the tides of history, with no one caring what misunderstandings might have lain within it.
Perhaps one day, some scholar might grow curious about the downfall of the Baratheon line, and on the sands of history dig up a few stones of truth, holding them to the sunlight in wonder.
But for the Vale’s people living through this history, all they knew now was that they needed vengeance, and to wash away their humiliation with blood.
For among those who had murdered their liege lord and conspired to seize their lands and inheritance, the Iron Throne bore its share of guilt.
As Kal looked around at those present, the more he thought, the more sweat ran cold down his back.
It seemed only this explanation could make sense of the string of baffling events that had unfolded before his eyes.
Robert Baratheon might not be accused of total betrayal, but at the very least he could not escape guilt for wronging the Vale.
And if, in the midst of Tywin Lannister’s eastward campaign, Robert were suddenly to abandon every advantage—including his own domains and Riverrun of the Riverlands—in order to choose this side—
Then even that sliver of doubt which had once puzzled the king and the northern lords back at Raventree Hall might now find its reasonable answer.
If Robert chose merely to vent his fury by sending another in his place to deal with the Vale lords—
Then, under the push of conspiracy, Kal dared not imagine what the final outcome might be.
Perhaps the Seven Kingdoms under their old rulers before the Targaryens would be the best conclusion.
And for the Lannisters, that would indeed be the most favorable ending.
Overthrow it. Break it apart.
And then build a new castle upon the ruins.
As Kal pieced his thoughts together, his mind grew ever heavier.
Yet along with it came a faint sense of relief.
Relief that he had come here in person. Relief that in the hearts of both Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, there still lingered some shred of sentiment for the Vale.
And greater relief still—that in handling this matter, he had done so on the foundation of the kindness Jon Arryn had once shown him.
Why else would he plunge into this thankless mire, one sure to win him only enmity, if not for that?
The title of Warden of the East held no attraction for him. Kal knew well enough it bore no real meaning for him, nor could it bring him any benefit.
And that Robert had bestowed it upon him—Stone, a bastard born of the Vale—Kal could not say what the king truly intended in his heart.
For whether it was the king, the Hand, or even Kal himself, all of them understood:
The wardenship of the East could never truly rest in his hands. From any angle, in any respect, it was impossible.
With his standing and his position, the Vale would never belong to him.
Even if Robert were to legitimize him and name him heir, he would still have to return the title of Warden of the East in the end. There was no reason at all for him to hold it.
From beginning to end, this title was nothing more than a symbol—its meaning symbolic, never practical.
For the old foxes among the Vale lords, seeing through this much was not difficult.
Unless, of course, one truly harbored that ambition—entertaining thoughts that never should have belonged to him in the first place.
But wouldn’t that fall neatly into someone else’s pocket?
Perhaps, indeed, the one orchestrating matters behind the scenes had arranged this move precisely because Robert refused to return the title of Warden of the East to House Arryn.
Otherwise, if both sides nursed resentment, and information was deliberately obscured and manipulated, with the pressure of the larger situation bearing down as well—then who could guarantee what new troubles might arise?
Yet even after sorting these thoughts one by one, Kal still could not be certain whose hands truly lay behind the Vale’s conspiracy this time.
Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger?
On his own, and with his current foundation, he hardly seemed capable of pulling off something like this.
Tywin Lannister?
Then how had he managed to fish in such troubled waters amid the chaos?
Could it be that Tywin’s deliberate avoidance of battle after besieging Riverrun, followed by his unexpected retreat eastward, was influenced by similar factors?
House Martell?
Even less likely.
The Targaryen remnants in hiding fell short as well.
And as for the hands across the Narrow Sea—they could hardly reach into the Vale.
Surely, not all of this could be coincidence.
Solve one question, and another rose to the surface.
Kal felt a wave of vexation, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest of his chair.
His wandering thoughts carried his gaze, almost unconsciously, toward the burning hearth. The warmth of the flames filled the modest room.
“Ser Kal Stone—when the time comes, I will personally speak for us before the Iron Throne.”
Faced with Kal’s probing, and seeing that the young man seemed distracted, perhaps out of anger, the Vale lords exchanged glances. At last, Bronze Yohn stepped forward to speak.
“Ah—what, cough… forgive me, my mind had wandered elsewhere just now.”
A thousand thoughts surged through Kal’s head in an instant, his mind leaping swiftly from one connection to the next, weaving together everything he knew and suspected.
Though he seemed absent-minded, only a few seconds had truly passed—just long enough for those present to study him.
Indeed, it was because he had drifted in thought that he failed at first to react to Yohn Royce’s words.
Fortunately, his response came quickly. Looking upon the man whose frame no longer bore the vigor of youth, Kal’s gaze carried a certain gratitude.
It was fortunate that those gathered here were all men of advanced years—steady, seasoned, not reckless like the young.
Fortunate too that Bronze Yohn was present, able to hold the room with his authority and keep the others in check.
And from Kal’s observations, the Lord of Runestone had already sensed that something was amiss, conducting himself with caution and restraint.
It was precisely because of this that the situation had remained stable during the time since Kal’s arrival, without collapsing into sudden upheaval.
Thus, Kal had come with goodwill—and how could these men have come with anything less?
So, in return for that goodwill, Kal paused, then set aside his stern demeanor. The expression on his face shifted into a bright, sunny smile.
He lifted a hand in a courteous gesture, his words full of sincerity.
“No need for such formality, Lord Yohn Royce. From what I see, there are reasons behind this unexpected matter in the Vale, and so we cannot pass judgment with a single word."
"Therefore, I will report the truth of the situation to both the king and the Hand, and explain clearly how it all came about."
"As the Warden of the East, I suppose I must do something for the Vale, mustn’t I?”
Unlike earlier, when he had spoken on behalf of the Iron Throne to voice his doubts, Kal, having now understood the matter more clearly, adopted a far more personal and genial tone in dealing with the nobles.
Public duty was one thing, private dealings another—Kal knew the boundary well.
But his sudden change of face was so seamless that everyone present was left momentarily stunned.
Even the experienced lords and nobles found themselves puzzled at how Kal Stone, barely come of age, could show such polish.
If it had been someone their own age, it might have been easier to accept.
But precisely because he was so young, the impression he gave them felt almost unreal.
