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GOT Chapter 114: What a Farce
🕑 Added 2025-08-30 06:11:35 +0000 UTCThe mother and son, who had been clutching each other in tears, had gone silent when Ser Vardis spoke out in their defense. Both turned their tear-stained faces toward him—
Only to see, in the very next heartbeat, Kal launch an attack without the slightest warning.
A sword flew through the air and pierced the Captain of the Eyrie’s guards.
The force carried by the blade drove the armored knight’s staggering body forward, crashing down toward the pair.
Seeing that mass of steel hurtling straight at them—
Lysa Tully no longer had the mind to weep. Instinctively, she clutched Robert Arryn tight against her breast and, scrambling from the weirwood throne, flung herself down toward the open floor.
By sheer luck, the two rolled aside just as the armored bulk came crashing down, the thunder of steel striking stone resounding behind them.
Disheveled and sprawled on the ground after fleeing the throne, Lysa Tully finally found the breath to glance back.
Her plump face, swollen with grief, still glistened with tears.
Her pupils widened; her expression twisted from panic into raw terror.
For there, in the very place she had just vacated, sat Ser Vardis Egen.
But he was no longer standing tall as captain of the guard. Now he writhed in agony, his sword—once leveled at Kal—already clattering down from the platform.
His hands, empty, clawed helplessly at the air, as though grasping might change his fate.
Through his chest jutted the iron sword, its hilt protruding from the battered, deformed breastplate.
Behind his helm, Lysa could not hear his words—only the rasp of air wheezing out like a torn bellows, each breath sounding like leather ripped open.
At the same time, it seemed as if bubbles of air, unbroken and unburst, clogged the rent torn through his chest.
The great hall of the Eyrie fell silent once more.
Every eye widened, every mouth stilled, as all present stared in stunned disbelief at what had just taken place before them.
And in that silence—where only the wind through the Moon Door and the faint rush of the waterfall could be heard—
A single set of clear footsteps echoed, drawing all eyes at once.
They turned instinctively toward the sound.
Kal Stone, who only moments before had flung an iron sword across the hall to pierce a knight in full armor, now climbed the stone steps along the wall with a calm, unchanging expression on his face.
His steps were not quick, yet each one seemed to press upon the heartbeat of those watching.
In that eerie silence, every footfall struck like a blow against their breathing, unsettling the rhythm of their lungs.
Under this sudden, suffocating tension, Kal ascended slowly to the high platform.
Before all eyes, he passed Lysa Tully—who was crouched on the ground, trembling as though her posture were some show of loyalty. He spared her not even a glance.
Instead, his measured, graceful steps carried him before Ser Vardis Egen, who sat slumped upon the weirwood throne, chest pierced, unable to speak a word—left only to wait in despair for death’s arrival.
Blood poured from the wound in his chest, seeping through the cracks of his armor, dripping down onto the pale wood of the throne.
The white grain of the weirwood now bore streaks of scarlet.
The blood crept along its lines, sinking slowly into its hidden crevices.
Kal’s face showed no trace of pity as he looked upon the knight who had so rashly stepped forward without knowing the measure of things.
He had known Vardis Egen before, back in King’s Landing.
Perhaps that was precisely why Vardis had dared to rise against him—thinking Kal an easy target.
Kal bent slightly, seizing the seam of the knight’s breastplate, and with one hand heaved him up from the weirwood throne.
Lifting him effortlessly, Kal turned, holding the full weight of an armored knight dangling in his grasp, and looked out over the hall—where the nobles of the Vale stared back at him with wide eyes and gaping mouths.
“It is royal authority.”
“The king’s authority, which grants me this mission, and gives me leave to bare my sword against you—and against the Lady of this hall.”
“Because you must think. Truly think.”
Kal’s hand gripped only the dying body of the Eyrie’s captain of the guard. Yet the words were not for Vardis, but for the Vale’s lords—who stood stunned, staring at him in speechless shock.
Having given his answer, Kal’s gaze swept the hall, from right to left, his eyes pausing on every single face for at least a heartbeat before moving on.
Only then did he look once more at Ser Vardis, who now hung limp in his grasp, breathing out more than he drew in, soft as dough yet unbaked.
Taking the man he had made an example of, Kal reached for the hilt protruding from his chest.
With a screech of steel tearing against steel, he slowly drew free the longsword—Jory Cassel’s blade—that had transfixed him.
Blood sprayed, gushed, but still could not resist the inhuman strength in Kal’s arm.
At last, the blade came free—its edge bent, its steel twisted, its whole length drenched in crimson.
Kal let the heavy iron sword hang at his side, letting the scarlet droplets patter down onto the white stone floor.
Only then did Kal turn his gaze, fixing it on the young Lord of the Eyrie, Robert Arryn—who, pressed tight against his mother, was struck dumb, forgetting even to cry.
“Sweet Robin, would you like to see him fly?”
Kal suddenly asked Robert Arryn. But before the young Lord of the Eyrie could even answer, Kal raised his hand—and in Robert’s wide-eyed stare, his brown hair whipped by the gusting wind—
He hurled the body of Ser Vardis Egen, who had already drawn his final breath, straight toward the Moon Door, no less than 10 meters away.
The corpse of Ser Vardis flew like a rag doll, discarded into a waste bin.
Before the eyes of all, he vanished without a sound, without a ripple, gone from sight.
Were it not for the blood still staining the white stone floor before the weirwood throne, many might have wondered if what they had just witnessed was some illusion.
“Kal Stone, what in the Seven Hells are you doing?!”
At last Lysa Tully snapped back to her senses as the knight’s body disappeared through the Moon Door. She shrieked at Kal, who stood before her like a towering spear of stone, his presence suffocating.
Her face was twisted, her eyes wide and manic, spittle flying from her mouth as she shouted.
Yet even as she screamed, her body betrayed her—she clutched Robert Arryn tightly in her arms, shrinking and trembling in a corner of the throne, like a beast cowed before its predator.
“You want to kill the only heir of House Arryn!”
“You want to seize the Eyrie for yourself!”
“That’s it, isn’t it? Robert Baratheon made you Warden of the East for this very purpose!”
“He saw Jon Arryn dead and thought the Vale ripe for plunder! He wants you—his bastard—to become lord here! He means for the Vale to bow to him forever!”
Lysa’s voice cracked, shrill and desperate, like some small creature lashing out while cornered.
Though her words were born of terror and madness, they carried a strange thread of reason—accusations that, twisted as they were, held a biting logic.
Hearing this hysterical tirade, Kal’s brow furrowed for a moment—then smoothed.
He had no patience for this crazed woman.
Instead, he stood firm before the weirwood throne. With a casual motion, he let the bloodied sword in his hand fall against the floor, its weight ringing against the stone. Then he lifted his gaze to the gathered nobles of the Vale.
The blood upon the sword no longer dripped; cooled by time and air, it had begun to congeal.
The lords, drawn back from their daze by Lysa’s screams, now stared at him, their expressions troubled, uncertain.
Kal’s voice broke the silence, calm yet crushing.
“What a farce.”
His tone was flat, but carried the weight of disdain.
At those words, the lords exchanged uneasy glances.
“Or rather,” Kal continued, “this whole spectacle—so absurd, so pitiful—has become nothing but a farce from beginning to end.”
His voice grew louder, until it was almost a roar.
“Lord Jon Arryn was murdered by the Lannisters because he uncovered their conspiracy! And you—his sworn bannermen—rather than avenging him, choose to sit idle!”
“For the sake of a hysterical woman, you rot here in the Vale, turning your back on royal authority!”
“And when I come here in the king’s name, all I am met with is slander and accusation!”
Kal’s gaze swept across the hall, his eyes heavy with disappointment.
At his words, the nobles exchanged uneasy glances. The dangerous, twisted looks they had borne under Lysa’s cries shifted instead into guilt.
But Kal’s voice did not relent.
“Perhaps you ought to think carefully, my lords—why did King Robert send me to the Vale, a bastard raised here in the Eyrie?”
He spoke openly of his birth, his eyes now burning with fervor.
“If you do not know, I shall answer you—”
“Because the king loved his foster father. He loved the late Lord Jon Arryn!”
“And I, who also grew up here in the Eyrie, was treated with the same fairness by Lord Jon Arryn—as if I were his own child!”
“So when King Robert made the bastard still called Stone Warden of the East, do you truly think it was to seize the Vale?”
“Why then has he raised this war against the Lannisters? For what purpose?”
Kal’s voice thundered through the hall.
Here he paused deliberately, watching as the nobles below sank into thought.
Then, with a small shake of his head, he lifted his longsword. Without sparing so much as a glance at Lysa Tully trembling beneath the throne, he descended step by step from the dais.
He came down among the gathered lords, looking upon Lady Anya Waynwood of Ironoaks, Ser Jeywood Hunter of Longbow Hall, and the others.
His eyes and tone were heavy with bitter disappointment.
“Perhaps the true betrayers of Jon Arryn are not others—but you.”
With those words, Kal said no more. He tossed the bloodstained, warped sword into the dazed hands of Jory Cassel, then pushed through those blocking his way, intent on leaving.
But just as he reached the doors of the hall, a deep voice rang out behind him.
“The Vale shall confess its fault before the Iron Throne!”
“We all shall!”
“But we will swear fealty only to the king—to the true Warden of the East.”
“Not to you, bastard ‘Warden of the East.’”
At those words, Kal halted.
Without turning back, he said coldly: “In the name of Lord Jon Arryn—when Robert Arryn comes of age and can rule, he shall be the true Warden of the East.”
“But until then, he must have proper guidance. Not be suckled in the arms of a madwoman.”
