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GOT Chapter 112: The Moon Door Stands Open
🕑 Added 2025-08-30 05:42:00 +0000 UTCThe great hall of the Eyrie, meant as the castle lord’s dining place, was a long yet austere chamber.
Its walls were built of blue-veined white marble. At the far end stood the high seat of House Arryn, a throne carved from weirwood.
Narrow arched windows lined the hall, with iron sconces holding fire-torches set between them, their flames hissing and sputtering under the gusts of wind blown in from beneath the Moon Door.
The Moon Door of the Eyrie stood here in this hall—a narrow weirwood door set between two slender pillars, carved with the shape of a crescent moon, secured with a heavy bronze portal.
It opened inward, straight into empty air. Through this door, one could look directly down six hundred feet to the rocky valley floor below.
The moment Samwell Tarly entered the hall, his eyes caught the open door, wind howling through it, and at once he recalled the tales he had read in books.
It was said that most executions in the Eyrie were carried out through that very door. But why was it standing open now?
The thought chilled Sam to the bone. He shrank his neck, hiding behind Jon, not daring to speak.
Kal’s eyes also flicked briefly toward the open Moon Door, but his gaze soon moved on. It swept instead over those seated in a row beneath the high seat—nearly twenty chairs filled with men and women.
They wore garments of every kind, but without exception each bore upon them the sigil of their house.
These lords and ladies of the Vale, of differing ages and genders, now fixed their varied gazes upon Kal Stone as he entered the hall through the great doors.
Kal, however, only glanced at them once in passing.
Then he lifted his head, watching as Lysa Tully, pulling young Robert Arryn, ascended the steps toward the throne of weirwood carved for House Arryn.
Her face still bore the same spiteful expression. She sat upon the throne, first pulling Robert into her arms to sit at her side.
Then, all at once, she drew forth a naked longsword from beside the throne and laid it across her knees.
Seeing the posture Lysa Tully assumed, everyone present—even Brynden himself—grew solemn in expression, all except Kal.
In the Seven Kingdoms, everyone knew what it meant to greet a guest with a naked blade.
“Lady Lysa, this is not the custom of House Arryn in receiving guests!”
Ser Brynden Tully’s blunt words all but pointed at Lysa Tully’s nose, accusing her of discourtesy outright.
Hearing such words from her own uncle—spoken in defense of an enemy—Lysa, already burning with jealousy and rage, shot to her feet as if pricked by needles. She snatched up the slender sword from her knees and leveled its point straight at Kal Stone, standing in the center of the hall barely three paces from the open Moon Door.
“House Arryn’s courtesy is reserved for the friends of House Arryn,” she spat. “Not to welcome some baseborn bastard, nor to indulge him in mocking the eagles of the Vale!”
“Do not forget the words of House Arryn!”
Lysa’s fury sharpened her voice to a shrill edge.
Seeing her remain so obstinate, Ser Brynden Tully—perhaps feeling himself shamed alongside her—stepped forward as if he, too, had been insulted.
He planted himself directly before Kal, interposing his body so that Lysa’s sword point was aimed at him instead.
“What insult is there here!” he thundered. “If you mean the title of ‘Warden of the East,’ then let me remind you—the king has every right to do as he deems fit!”
Brynden glared at his niece, his face red and his neck swollen with anger at her breach of courtesy.
But before their quarrel could deepen, Kal lifted a hand and lightly patted the Blackfish on the shoulder.
“Ser Brynden, I thank you for standing up for me.” Kal’s expression was utterly calm, even tinged with faint amusement as he regarded the hostile posture of those before him.
Interrupted, Brynden turned back to Kal. After a brief struggle in his eyes, he seemed to understand something, and could only step back.
Seeing Brynden abandon his futile attempt to smooth things over, Kal cast his deep gaze across those gathered.
His face remained composed.
Slowly, he began to speak.
“I, Ser Kal Stone, come in the name of Robert Baratheon the First—King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”
“And by the authority of Robert Baratheon the First, who has invested me with the title of Warden of the East, I address you here today.”
Kal looked calmly at the lords and ladies seated before him. His tone was level, his voice as still as water.
Yet as his words fell, the expressions of those present shifted at once. No longer could they regard him with the same schadenfreude as before.
All except for Lysa Tully—every noble in the hall, each marked by the sigil of their house, instinctively glanced sideways at one another, their faces heavy with complicated emotions, tinged with unease.
None of them had expected that this bastard, said to have only just reached manhood at a little over ten years of age, would begin by striking such a blow of authority through the very weight of his name.
So when Kal’s voice faded, silence swallowed the hall. Only the whistling gusts through the open Moon Door broke the stillness.
But that silence did not last long.
With a weary sigh, the first to rise was a tall, grey-haired elder, wrinkles lining his face. Upon his surcoat was displayed an orange field, upon which lay two lines of runes enclosing a heap of stones.
He faced Kal Stone and bent slightly at the waist in salute.
“Ser Kal Stone, I pay respect to the king—and to you!”
The old man had a pair of grey eyes, thick brows, and a booming voice.
As he offered his greeting to Kal, his expression was solemn and earnest, his courtesy impeccable.
Kal noticed beneath his surcoat a suit of bronze armor tinged faintly red, etched with subtle carved patterns.
At the sight of both armor and sigil, Kal immediately recognized the man before him.
Yohn Royce, known as Bronze Yohn, Lord of Runestone and head of House Royce.
Seeing that the first to show him respect was this elder, Kal also returned the courtesy with a slight bow.
“It is an honor to meet you, Lord Yohn Royce.”
With Bronze Yohn taking the lead, the dozen or so nobles present could no longer remain seated.
Whether willingly or not, they all rose in turn to greet Ser Kal Stone.
Kal did not carry himself with arrogance. He returned each salute one by one, addressing them by the names of their houses.
He had read many books from Tyrion, including histories and heraldry of Westeros.
And being himself a man of the Vale, recognizing these lords and their houses was hardly difficult.
As Kal greeted each of them in turn, calling out their families by name, the expressions of these men and women began to shift.
It was as though a sheet of ice, slowly melting in the warmth of spring.
With these simple greetings, Kal had turned passivity into initiative, shifting the ground from that of an unwelcome guest into one of command.
Only then did he look up with a smile toward the woman still standing before the weirwood throne, a slender sword in her hand, glaring at him with a face twisted as though she had swallowed filth—Lysa Tully.
Yet even faced with such hostility, Kal’s manners remained proper.
“Lady Lysa, I am glad to see you. Please accept my condolences for the passing of Lord Jon Arryn.”
Kal offered her his greeting—but his eyes lingered on the slender sword in her hand.
As Ser Brynden had said, this was no way to treat a guest.
By the traditions of the Seven Kingdoms, only when a lord denied a guest’s rights would they place a drawn sword across their knees.
And that signified the lord’s right to draw blood against a guest under their own roof.
Kal did not speak this truth aloud. His words stopped short.
But it was precisely this indifference toward her actions that stung Lysa all the more.
Her expression twisted with venom. Without so much as a glance at Kal Stone—who, since arriving at the Eyrie, had greeted her first with a smile and offered the first word—she turned her fury instead upon the vassals seated below the throne.
She looked at those she herself had summoned to back her, now seemingly siding against her, and her face contorted as she shrieked: “Traitors, all of you!”
“Robert disgraces House Arryn, setting a bastard as Warden of the East, while refusing to invest the true heir of the Vale—House Arryn’s only rightful successor!”
“What is it you mean to do!”
Lysa Tully’s voice turned wild with hysteria. She swung the slender sword in her hand, pointing it at the vassals seated beneath the weirwood throne, cursing them in a shrill and piercing shriek.
