The shrill cry of a whistling arrow tore through the mountain air, announcing a war that had been planned long before this moment.
The hollow scream sliced across the darkening sky and struck a tribesman standing atop a wooden watchtower. The arrow pierced his skull with brutal precision, and the sound ended as abruptly as it had begun.
A heartbeat later, the forest erupted.
From every direction came the thunderous roars of the Vale knights.
They burst from the woods like steel-clad phantoms, having already taken up their positions in absolute silence. Blades flashed as they were drawn, and the scrape of armor against bark and brush formed a grim rhythm beneath the rising war cries.
The sudden attack shocked the High Mountain Clan Tribe. Only moments ago, they had been gathered around their bonfire, finishing their evening meal—laughing, boasting, and enjoying the brief peace of the mountain night.
That peace vanished instantly.
There was no time for crude jokes, no time to pick their teeth or drag women into the shadows. The moment they realized they were surrounded, these warriors—hardened by years of bloodshed—snatched up whatever weapons they could find.
Spears. Axes. Crude blades chipped from iron and stone.
The elderly, the children, and the women were pulled inward, forming a tight knot at the center of the tribe. Some of the younger women, strong and fierce-eyed, refused to hide. They seized weapons of their own and stood shoulder to shoulder with the men.
The mountain forest lost daylight quickly. Though the sun had not fully set, the dense canopy swallowed the light, leaving the tribe dependent on the flickering glow of the bonfire.
That was when the enemy struck.
They didn't know how many attackers surrounded them—only that the roars came from all sides, echoing through the trees. Their hearts pounded in time with the crackle of flames.
Then steel met flesh.
The dull thuds of blades burying themselves in bodies were followed by screams—raw, desperate, and final. The white gleam of swords flashed in the firelight, appearing and disappearing like lightning, freezing terror into the hearts of those who saw it.
Iron punched through skin and bone. Blood sprayed high and painted the forest floor.
The battlefield dissolved into chaos.
Hidden among the trees, Karl lowered his longbow.
His expression was calm, almost indifferent, as he watched the Vale knights advance with ruthless efficiency.
"Very good," he said quietly.
Satisfied, he handed the bow to the rider beside him.
Samwell Tarly accepted it with trembling hands. His round face was pale, beads of sweat rolling down his cheeks as he awkwardly wiped his brow.
Karl did not lead the charge this time, unlike his clash with the Lannister army in the Brackwood lands of the Reach. Today, his role was different.
He was here to command.
More importantly, he wanted to see for himself the true strength of the Arryn elite—knights trained in the Eyrie, hardened by discipline rather than brute savagery.
And what he saw pleased him.
The knights dismounted swiftly, moving through the forest in full armor without hesitation or fear. In groups of three to five, they advanced methodically, shields raised, spears thrusting, swords cutting.
They were fully equipped. Fully prepared.
The High Mountain Clan Tribe, caught completely off guard, had no chance to organize a proper defense. Their formation collapsed almost instantly.
They had yet to inflict a single casualty.
Still, Karl noticed something unusual.
Despite the slaughter, resistance at the tribe's core was fierce. After the initial panic passed, the warriors regrouped, rallying around shouted commands. Their discipline—and their ferocity—exceeded Karl's expectations.
Interesting.
The composition of this tribe was strange. Their numbers, their fighting spirit, even their unity felt… different.
As twenty or thirty tribesmen fell in quick succession, Karl made his decision.
"If we don't step in now," he said calmly, "they'll all be killed."
He nudged his horse forward. "It's time for us to appear."
Karl led Sam, Jon, Hall, and the others—those who had remained behind—down the narrow mountain path.
By the time Karl reached the battlefield, the wildlings had managed to reassemble. Under shouted orders, they tightened their defenses, forming a shrinking ring around their non-combatants.
The battle stalled.
Within the circle stood Red Hand Tímei of the Burning Tribe.
Blood smeared his face—blood that did not belong to him. It had sprayed from the neck of a young warrior cut down moments earlier.
Tímei himself was young, but his face bore the marks of a hard life. His left eye was gone, replaced by a burned, blackened socket—a scar so severe it made his visage terrifying.
Yet his expression was resolute.
Despair flickered deep in his remaining eye as he stared at the steel-clad knights surrounding his people.
When Karl arrived at the edge of the encirclement, he noticed something important.
The Vale soldiers had not continued their slaughter.
At a signal from their captains, they withdrew in perfect order, blades lowered but ready.
Karl's satisfaction grew.
They obey without hesitation, he thought. Good.
I should borrow more men from Robert Arryn, he mused. If I ever claim territory of my own, I'll need an army like this.
The knights parted, opening a clear path.
A young man riding a white warhorse emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed not in armor but in a brocade robe utterly out of place in the wild mountains.
Karl rode forward without fear.
"Who is your leader?" he demanded.
The tribesmen flinched as the warhorse snorted, its hot breath brushing their faces.
Slowly, their gazes shifted.
Toward Tímei.
Karl followed their eyes.
"Are you the leader?" he asked calmly. "Tell me your name."
Tímei stepped forward.
"I am their leader," he said, lifting his chin. "They call me Red Hand."
Karl's eyes flicked to the burned socket.
"Red Hand… Burning Tribe?" he asked.
Tímei said nothing, but his silence was answer enough.
"Tell me your name," Karl repeated.
"You attack us," Tímei shot back, "and yet you demand my name without offering your own?"
Before Karl could reply, Hall snapped sharply, "You stand before the Warden of the East, barbarian. Show respect!"
Tímei froze.
"Warden of the East?" he repeated, stunned.
Jon Arryn was dead. The new Lord of the Eyrie was a child.
No Warden had been appointed.
That was why the mountain tribes had grown bold again.
Yet now…
Tímei looked at the soldiers, recognizing the sky-blue eagle on white moon—House Arryn.
Hope drained from his chest.
"What do you want?" he asked flatly. "To kill us?"
"Yes," Karl said. "And no."
Tímei frowned.
"My name is Tímei, son of Tímei."
Karl smiled faintly.
"My name is Karl Stone."
He leaned forward slightly in the saddle.
"By your customs, I am the King of the Iron Throne. Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Protector of the Realm. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."
"I am the son of Robert Baratheon."
Silence slammed down on the clearing.
Even the Vale knights turned, stunned.
"Stone?" Tímei blurted. "A bastard?"
"A mongrel becomes Warden of the East?!"
Steel flashed.
Hall lunged, sword thrusting for Tímei's eye.
Karl caught the blade between two fingers.
The sword stopped dead.
Tímei's pupils shrank.
Karl released the blade, his smile gone.
"I came here to ask one question," he said coldly.
"Those who surrender to me shall live."
"Those who defy me shall die."
The words echoed through the trees.
All eyes turned to Red Hand Tímei.
Tímei straightened.
"We have never surrendered," he said fiercely. "Not to the Andals. Not to the Eyrie."
"If you want our obedience—cut off our heads."
Karl stared at him.
The fire crackled.
The game was set.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)