If one followed this chain of events to its source, using the scattered clues already known, then the conclusion Karl had arrived at was not impossible at all.
If someone had deliberately guided the Vale toward a distorted understanding of the Iron Throne's intentions, then everything happening now—every contradiction and every sudden escalation—made a terrifying kind of sense.
Countless emotions surged within Karl's heart. His expression grew heavy as he slowly lifted his gaze to the assembled lords before him.
Putting himself in their position, he realized that without the advantage of a godlike overview, he would likely have drawn the same conclusions they had. Perhaps he might have even acted more radically.
After all, the Vale had given everything.
Jon Arryn, the former Hand of the King and Lord Paramount of the Vale, had sacrificed his life, his honor, and the blood of his people for the Iron Throne. The knights of the Vale had ridden beneath his banners, shedding blood and severing heads to overthrow the Targaryen dynasty that had ruled Westeros for centuries. They had helped Robert Baratheon seize the throne and establish a new era.
After the war, Jon Arryn continued to dedicate himself wholly to the realm, serving as Hand of the King until his final breath.
Yet what had the Vale received in return for such unwavering loyalty?
Jon Arryn's devotion to the crown was unquestionable, and the people of the Vale had followed his example without hesitation. But the man who ultimately sat upon the Iron Throne cared only for indulging himself, squandering the fruits of others' labor in endless feasts, hunts, and pleasures.
Even after Jon Arryn's death, there was no dignity afforded to his legacy.
The old man had been murdered through a shameful conspiracy involving the queen and her Kingsguard, all because he had uncovered secrets surrounding the royal children and the legitimacy of the Iron Throne itself.
And before Jon Arryn's bones had even grown cold, Robert Baratheon sought to send the Arryn family's sole legitimate heir—the last true blood of the Eyrie—to be fostered by the Lannisters.
No—fostered was too kind a word.
In truth, it was nothing more than a hostage arrangement. A captive disguised as goodwill.
That plan had failed only because Lady Lysa Tully had resisted with desperate resolve, fleeing back to the Vale with her son. The shock of these events had seemingly shattered her mind, leaving her unstable and unpredictable.
Yet even then, the injustice did not end.
Although Jon Arryn's son inherited the Eyrie as was his lawful right, Robert Baratheon stripped him of the ancient title of Warden of the East—a title that had belonged to House Arryn for generations.
Viewed from another angle, every decision Robert had made since Jon Arryn's death was an insult to the Vale. None of it was fair. None of it honored the sacrifices that House Arryn and the Vale lords had made.
Under such circumstances, all it would take was a single misunderstanding—a spark—to ignite an explosion.
The lords of the Vale were not tame sheep waiting to be slaughtered. They were warriors who had once toppled a dynasty. If they had possessed the courage to overthrow the Targaryens, then they would also have the courage to challenge the Baratheons.
Perhaps they would never ally with the Lannisters, but they would certainly become enemies of Robert Baratheon.
And once that happened, the situation would spiral into a dead end.
Truth would be drowned beneath the tides of history. No one would care about the misunderstandings or manipulations that had led to disaster.
Centuries later, scholars might speculate about the sudden fall of House Baratheon within a single generation, digging fragments of truth from the sands of time and holding them up to the light with detached curiosity.
But for the people of the Vale living in this moment, there was only rage, humiliation, and the desire for vengeance. Blood would be the only means of washing away the shame inflicted upon them.
And worse still, the Iron Throne itself appeared complicit—entangled in the murder of their liege and the attempt to strip them of their inheritance.
As Karl surveyed the faces before him, his thoughts grew heavier, and a chill crept down his spine.
Only by piecing together these motivations could he finally understand the string of seemingly irrational events that had unfolded.
Robert Baratheon might not have deliberately preyed upon the weak, but his mistreatment of the Vale was undeniable.
And if Tywin Lannister—after besieging Riverrun—had suddenly abandoned every advantage, even turning away from the Reach and his own territories, choosing instead to move toward the Vale, then that lingering doubt which had troubled the king and the northern lords at Crow Tree City finally had a plausible explanation.
If Robert had intended to vent his anger by making the Vale a scapegoat…
Then under the pressure of this unseen conspiracy, Karl could not begin to imagine how the situation might ultimately end.
Perhaps the fragmented rule that existed before the Targaryen conquest would once again become the fate of Westeros.
And for House Lannister, such chaos would be the perfect opportunity.
Break it. Crush it.
Then build something new atop the ruins.
As Karl organized his thoughts, his heart grew heavier still. Yet alongside the dread, a faint sense of gratitude also surfaced.
Gratitude that he had come to the Vale.
Gratitude that Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark still retained a sliver of affection for this land.
And above all, gratitude that his own actions had been guided by the kindness Jon Arryn had once shown him.
Otherwise, why would he wade into this treacherous mire—offending powerful figures and gaining nothing in return?
The title of Warden of the East held no real attraction for him. Karl understood clearly that it carried little practical authority and offered him no tangible benefit.
More importantly, Robert had placed this title upon the head of his bastard son—Karl Stone—born in the Vale.
It was difficult not to question the king's intentions.
Because everyone involved—the king, the Hand, and Karl himself—knew the truth.
Karl could never truly hold the Vale.
Given his status, the Vale would never accept his rule. Even if Robert were to legitimize him one day, Karl would still have to relinquish the title of Warden of the East. There was simply no justification for him to occupy it.
From beginning to end, the title was symbolic rather than practical.
The veteran lords of the Vale understood this perfectly.
Unless, of course, Karl himself harbored ambitions he should not possess.
But such ambition would only play directly into the hands of whoever was manipulating events from the shadows.
Perhaps that hidden figure had understood exactly why Robert had withheld the title from House Arryn—and had used that fact to set the stage.
Otherwise, trapped between hostility on both sides, deprived of complete information, and pressed by external threats, Karl could not guarantee that catastrophe would not follow.
Yet after tracing these thoughts to their end, he found himself uncertain of one crucial point.
Who was truly behind the conspiracy in the Vale?
Petyr Baelish?
Littlefinger alone, even with his growing influence, seemed incapable of orchestrating something of this magnitude.
Tywin Lannister?
If so, how had he managed to maneuver so freely within such chaos?
The Martells?
Impossible.
The remnants of House Targaryen?
Still insufficient.
The powers across the Narrow Sea?
Their reach did not extend into the Vale.
Could it all truly be coincidence?
As one question was resolved, another arose. Karl felt a wave of irritation and tapped his fingers lightly against the armrest.
His gaze drifted toward the fireplace, where the flames cast a gentle warmth through the chamber.
"Ser Karl Stone," Bronze Yohn Royce finally said, stepping forward, "when the time comes, I will personally explain everything to the Iron Throne on behalf of those present."
Karl blinked, momentarily startled, having been lost in thought.
"Ah—sorry," he said, coughing lightly. "I was thinking about something else."
His mind raced, reorganizing information and speculation alike. Though countless thoughts surged through him, only a few seconds passed.
Fortunately, the lords before him were seasoned men—calm, patient, and accustomed to storms far greater than this.
And fortunately, Bronze Yohn was here to steady the situation with his authority.
Karl exhaled, his expression softening into a warm smile.
"There's no need for that, Lord Royce," he said sincerely. "This incident in the Vale has its own reasons. It cannot be judged with a single sentence."
"I will report everything truthfully to the king and the Hand, explaining the full story."
"As the Warden of the East," he added lightly, "I should do something for the Vale, shouldn't I?"
The sudden shift in demeanor stunned those present.
Public duty and private sentiment—Karl separated them cleanly.
The veteran lords exchanged glances, newly reassessing the young man before them.
"Very well," Lord Royce replied.
Lady Anya rose with a gentle smile. "Then let us move on to what truly matters," she said.
And so, with the misunderstanding eased, the secret chamber filled once more with discussion—until a sudden shout from beyond the door shattered the calm.
"Wait—who are you?! What do you have in your hands?!"
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)