"Lord Royce."
Eddard Karstark looked at Bronze Yohn, who sat beside him in the high hall of the Moon Gate, and spoke with a calm that brooked no argument. "Robert is still a child—barely eight years old. For his health and his future, it is far better that he resides with his own kin."
A simple sentence, yet it acted like a sudden frost, instantly cooling the heated atmosphere of the Banquet Hall.
Following the imprisonment of Petyr Baelish, a collective weight had lifted from the shoulders of the Vale lords. They had found it intolerable to be commanded by an upstart from a family of Braavosi merchants, a house that had been in the Vale for less than two centuries. To the ancient lineages of Runestone and Iron Oaks, Littlefinger's rule was a lingering insult.
But with the "snake" in a cage, a new struggle had emerged: the guardianship of the young Duke. This was not a matter of sentiment; it was a matter of raw power. Whoever controlled Robert Arryn controlled the Moon Gate, the Bloody Gate, and the Eyrie. They would effectively become the "Defender of the East," wielding the authority to command every other house in the Vale.
The six great families - Royce, Belmore, Waynwood, Redfort, Hunter, and Templeton had been bickering for hours. Their compromise was a "rotation" of guardianship, a convoluted game of musical chairs that prioritized their own greed over the boy's stability.
Eddard's intervention swept their plans aside. In terms of blood, he was the boy's cousin-in-law. In terms of strength, he was a King in all but name, backed by the "Winter Guards" and a reputation for beheading anyone who stood in his way.
Bronze Yohn Royce gritted his teeth, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Lord Eddard... this is hardly a local solution, is it? The Vale should be ruled from the Vale."
"There is nothing wrong with it," Eddard said, waving a hand dismissively. He took a slow sip of wine, his grey-blue eyes scanning the room. "I do not question your loyalty, My Lords, but your solution is a game played with a boy's life. Maester Colemon tells me Robert's condition, the 'shaking fit'—is aggravated by stress and frequent changes in environment. Harrenhal is spacious, secure, and under the care of my wife, Sansa Stark. It is his family home as much as the Eyrie."
Eddard knew that epilepsy, even in his previous world, was a matter of management, not a simple cure. But with Marwyn the Mage now at Harrenhal, he hoped to combine medieval medicine with more... unconventional methods.
Lady Anya Waynwood was the first to see the writing on the wall. She offered Eddard a sharp, calculating look. "If the Duke is to reside at Harrenhal for his education, then who manages the day-to-day affairs of his vassals?"
"You do," Eddard replied, leaning back. "Divide the Vale into six administrative districts. Each of your houses will hold a portion of the responsibility. If a dispute arises that you cannot settle, send a raven to Harrenhal. The Duke will issue his decree from there, under my guidance."
By trading eight years of regional autonomy to the lords, Eddard secured the physical custody of the Arryn heir. The bickering resumed, but the tone had shifted from "who gets the boy" to "who gets the most lucrative trade routes." Eddard didn't wait for the final tally. He stood, his silver plate armor gleaming, and walked out, followed by the silent shadow of Karas Snow.
By the next morning, the "Six House Treaty" was signed. The chaos of the Vale had officially ended, just as the second snow of the season began to fall.
The journey to Gulltown was a white-out. Harsh winds whipped across the cliffs, throwing five-meter-high waves against the rocks of the Crab Claw Peninsula. Eddard reached the port of Gulltown and boarded his flagship, the Sunburst.
In the harbor of Sisterton, Eddard made his final arrangements. He handed Petyr Baelish and the sedated Robert Arryn over to Matthew and Arya Stark. "Escort them to Harrenhal," Eddard commanded. "Matthew, watch the roads. Arya... watch the 'Master of Coin.' If he even looks at a raven, clip his wings."
Arya offered a chillingly flat smile and patted the hilt of Needle.
With his rear secured, Eddard turned his fleet toward the Narrow Sea. His expedition to Slaver's Bay was a formidable force: 138 ships, 2,000 elite "Winter Guards," and several hundred warhorses. Most notably, a massive transport ship carried Mag the Mighty and fifty armored giants, their custom-made steel bows and triangular armor-piercing bolts lashed securely to the deck.
Jason Mallister, acting as Admiral, led the way toward Dragonstone.
The port of Dragonstone was a hive of frantic, cold-weather activity. Sailors moved supplies in a harbor that smelled of salt, sulfur, and discipline. There were no prostitutes, no gambling dens—Stannis Baratheon had purged the "vices" from his seat with a heavy hand.
In a harbor-side tavern that smelled only of weak ale and woodsmoke, Davos Seaworth sat with a man who looked like he had been dipped in a vat of jewels and silk.
Salladhor Saan, the self-titled "Prince of the Narrow Sea," was peeling an orange with a silver knife. His Lysene robes were woven with silver thread and trimmed with ermine, his buttons carved from emerald monkeys.
"Lord Hand, why must we talk in this frozen tomb?" Salladhor complained. "In King's Landing, I could find a girl on Silk Street who could make you forget the name of your King."
"His Majesty does not tolerate such things for his officials, Salladhor," Davos replied, taking a gulp of ale. "You've been hired for a job, not a party."
"A job for Eddard Karstark," Saan grinned, his peacock-feathered hat bobbing. "They say he has gold mines in his basement and lightning in his palms. A much better employer than your King, who pays in promises and 'justice.'"
"As long as you guide him safely to Slaver's Bay, you'll get your dragons," Davos promised.
A sailor burst in, shivering. "Boss! Ships on the horizon! Black flags with a golden sun!"
"The bank has arrived," Salladhor laughed, standing up. "Let us go meet our golden lord."
Eddard disembarked ten minutes later, meeting Davos and the Lyseni on the stone pier. He looked at the crowded harbor, his mind already calculating the time needed to cross the Narrow Sea.
"Lord Eddard! An honor to meet the man who broke the Lion's back!" Saan shouted, bowing with theatrical flair.
"Save the flattery for the merchants, Saan," Eddard replied, offering a stiff nod. "When can we weigh anchor? This port is too busy, and I have a Queen to meet."
"The Narrow Sea is angry today, My Lord," Saan said, looking at the leaden eastern sky. "Let the waves settle. Come, join me on the Valyrian. I have pepper-roasted lamb and Tyroshi brandy that will make you forget the cold."
Eddard looked at Jason Mallister, then back at the pirate. "Fine. We talk while we eat. But Saan... don't think your brandy will make me forget the price we agreed upon."
[System Notification: Eastern Expedition Phase 1: Departure.]
[Unit Deployed: The Sun-Glow Giant Legion (Overseas Duty).]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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