Karl had already made up his mind.
To be precise, he had decided not to kill the mountain clans—but to swallow them whole.
This decision was reached quietly, in the privacy of his chamber, with only four men present. No councils. No grand speeches. No consultation with the Vale lords.
And he had no intention of telling Bronze Yohn Royce or the others anytime soon.
Even if he did, they would oppose it without hesitation.
Leaving aside whether it was even feasible, just finding time to negotiate with those stubborn mountain clans would be exhausting. Fighting them would be worse. In the eyes of the Vale lords, Karl was already pushing his luck.
The war across Westeros was raging. Blood flowed in the Riverlands, banners clashed in the Crownlands, and the storm clouds of civil war loomed over the entire realm.
And now, the Warden of the East wanted to stir up trouble in the mountains?
To them, such a suggestion would sound like madness. A pointless risk that would burn coin, men, and supplies for no obvious gain. They would rather sit around, pass gas, and chase their own tails than throw their lives away on something so thankless.
That was the first reason Karl kept his plan to himself.
The second reason was far simpler—and far more dangerous.
What Karl intended to do ran directly against the interests of the Vale nobility.
If he spoke too early, those foxes would bare their teeth.
So Karl chose secrecy.
He would act first, finish the job, and only then inform them—when the deed was already done, the child already born, and the outcome irreversible. By then, objections would be meaningless.
Otherwise, every agreement he had just forced them into would become empty words.
With that settled, Karl began arranging his next steps.
First, the Vale lords currently lingering in the Eyrie needed to be sent away—back to their lands to reorganize their forces and prepare for the coming storm.
Second, strong garrisons had to be left behind in key locations such as Gulltown and Runestone. These cities faced the Narrow Sea directly and could not be left vulnerable to threats from across the water.
Finally, part of the Vale's strength would be dispatched to the Crownlands and Riverlands, which were destined to become the heart of the coming war.
Karl had no desire to keep these men close any longer.
They were wasting time, burning resources, and—more importantly—making him uneasy.
If left alone too long, these old vultures might start sniffing around Lysa Tully.
Power breeds ambition.
In the original course of history, even Nester Royce, the Eyrie's steward, had dared to pursue Lysa after Jon Arryn's death. And now, with Jon newly dead and chaos sweeping the realm, who knew how many masks were still hiding real intentions?
Otherwise, why had so many lords rushed to the Eyrie at Lysa's summons, only to delay their departure again and again?
Karl did not believe for a moment that there was no "honey trap" involved.
It was simply that the fish Lysa had baited had run into an accident—him.
Like a sudden flood dragon crashing down from the mountains, he had overturned her stove before she could cook her catch.
The fish escaped.
The fire was doused.
The pot shattered.
And Lysa herself was left scalded and screaming.
Now that Karl held a decisive advantage in Vale affairs—despite having no original stake in them—he had no intention of giving it up.
He would not foolishly discard power, nor would he wait for these foxes to try stealing meat that had already fallen into his hands.
If they wanted to put chains around his neck, they could hardly blame him for breaking them.
With the solution in sight, Karl's mood lifted considerably.
After darkness comes light.
In the puzzled gazes of Jon Snow and the others, Karl issued a few brief instructions, dismissed them, and quietly ordered the four—including Samwell Tarly—to prepare themselves and await his command.
When the room finally emptied, Karl let out a long breath.
A genuine smile appeared on his face.
He rose, straightened the soft dark-brown deerskin robe he had changed into, and walked to the window. Beyond the Eyrie stretched a breathtaking view—peaks and valleys bathed in pale light.
His gaze lingered on the towering Giant's Lance, and finally on the Tears of Alyssa, cascading endlessly down the western ridge.
"…I almost forgot," he murmured. "There's still one more thing."
His fingers brushed the gemstone embedded in the gilded scabbard at his waist.
There was something that absolutely had to be done—and done quickly.
If he waited a few more days, it would become far harder to justify sending the Vale lords away one by one.
That task was simple in nature, but dangerous in implication.
Investigate everyone connected to Lysa Tully.
Not merely those involved in the assassination attempt—but everyone tied to her past actions.
And using that as an excuse, Karl would extend the investigation backward… straight to the truth of Jon Arryn's death.
The idea struck him like lightning.
Karl already knew how Jon Arryn had died.
That was not the problem.
The problem was timing.
This truth could not explode now.
Revealing it too early would only plunge the realm into deeper chaos and provide no benefit whatsoever. King's Landing needed stability—controlled disorder, not open collapse.
But precisely because of that, groundwork had to be laid in advance.
This was his opportunity.
With the Vale lords still gathered, with authority firmly in his hands, Karl could strike while the iron was hot. When the war ended, this would become his political foundation—his foothold in the capital.
More importantly, it would become a scythe.
One sharp enough to clear away branches that did not belong to him.
The more he thought about it, the brighter his eyes became.
Publicly, the exposure of Cersei and Jaime's incest—combined with Stannis Baratheon's accusations—had conveniently turned two dead men into scapegoats for Jon Arryn's murder.
Dead men tell no tales.
But the truth was far simpler.
Jon Arryn had been poisoned by his wife, Lysa Tully.
With her own hands.
Who stood behind her remained uncertain—but certainty was not required.
As long as a crime exists, traces remain.
Karl had no intention of letting such a rare opportunity slip by. If Lysa and Littlefinger had acted, they had left footprints—no matter how well hidden.
With careful guidance, Karl could expose enough truth to remove obstacles like Grand Maester Pycelle, Varys the Spider, and other deeply rooted figures on the Small Council.
He was not above slinging mud.
Nor above using underhanded methods.
After all—
He was cheating.
"Where should I begin?" Karl murmured, arms crossed. "The balance must be precise."
Naturally, one name came to mind.
Scholar Colemon.
The first man to realize Jon Arryn had been poisoned, not sick. The man who had attempted detoxification—only to be stopped by Pycelle.
Karl had met him in King's Landing. He had served as Jon Arryn's personal scholar, only to be dismissed for his youth and "inexperience" at the most critical moment.
That dismissal had indirectly sealed Jon Arryn's fate.
Now, Colemon had returned to the Eyrie with Lysa—along with Ser Vardis Egen, who was already dead by Karl's hand.
And they were not alone.
Jon Arryn's household had followed them back: knights, servants, stewards, cooks, stable boys, soldiers.
A large number.
That was not a problem.
What was missing, however, was a finishing touch.
A eunuch.
No matter. There was time.
After dealing with Tywin Lannister, Karl could afford to play.
If subtle methods failed, his sword—cheat or not—was still sharp.
"The Sky Cells would be perfect," Karl mused. "Cool air. Long conversations."
"They'll tell me everything."
Ten days passed in the blink of an eye.
During that time, Karl conducted a relentless purge beneath the Eyrie's serene surface. Interrogations, detentions, quiet executions.
The deeper he dug, the more people surfaced.
It surprised him—until it didn't.
Reality, after all, was often stranger than fiction.
By the end, more than twenty individuals directly involved in Jon Arryn's death were executed in the name of the Warden of the East.
The Eyrie trembled.
Fear hung in the air.
And then, a raven arrived.
A letter from King Robert Baratheon—co-signed by Duke Eddard Stark.
Karl read it, a smile briefly flickering across his face before vanishing.
Perfect timing, Lord Stark.
In the Hall of the Eyrie, Karl sat upon the weirwood throne.
Jon Snow and Jory Cassel stood guard.
Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—stood behind young Robert Arryn, who sat obediently beside Karl on a small stool.
The Vale lords read the letter in silence.
Then Karl spoke.
"My lords, war is imminent. The Iron Throne demands haste."
"In the name of the Warden of the East, I order you to return to your lands immediately."
"Our responsibilities are already defined."
"The realm needs your loyalty."
Before objections could rise, Lady Anya Waynwood stood.
"Then we gather at Maidenpool."
Karl nodded.
Three days later, the Eyrie emptied.
Karl departed last—leading nearly four hundred men.
Robert Arryn rode with him.
After all, the Son of Heaven was useful.
And as the Wayn Gate closed behind them, Karl smiled.
The Vale was his.
And the war had truly begun.
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