The tribes of the High Mountain Clans were far more difficult to subdue than Karl had originally anticipated.
Although his early progress had been smooth—beginning with the small Burning Tribe and its chieftain, Red Hand One-Eyed Tímei, and then using that group as a spearhead to strike neighboring tribes—real resistance soon followed. The deeper he pushed into the Bright Moon Mountains, the more stubborn and violent the opposition became.
In several cases, Karl had no choice but to completely annihilate smaller tribes. Only by leaving behind blood and ruin could he ensure that the road ahead remained open and unchallenged.
Thus, among the peaks and forests of the Bright Moon Mountains, a new legend began to circulate.
The name of Karl Stone—the newly appointed Warden of the East.
After fully conquering the Burning Tribe through a combination of overwhelming force, personal charisma, and sheer intimidation, Karl finally learned the truth from Tímei. What he had subdued was not the entirety of the tribe.
Only then did Karl understand the strange unease he had felt from the beginning.
The events that occurred during his journey to the Eyrie to assume the title of Warden had also sent shockwaves through the mountain tribes. The mutilated corpses scattered throughout the wilderness—bodies torn apart as if by some enormous beast—were left without burial.
By the time other tribes discovered them, scavengers had already done their work. Still, what remained was enough for experienced hunters to reconstruct the scene.
From the marks left behind, they concluded that the raiding party had been hunted down and slaughtered by a small but terrifying force. It had not been a traditional battle, but a relentless pursuit and execution.
When this was combined with rumors of Jon Arryn's death and the brewing war between the crown and House Lannister, the mountain tribes—though isolated—began to stir. Their information was incomplete, but it was far from nonexistent.
Of the more than three hundred people Tímei had originally led, most were seasoned warriors, both men and women. The remaining members were not helpless dependents, but auxiliaries—porters, scouts, and helpers trained from a young age.
Only later did Karl notice something deeply unsettling.
There were no true children in the Burning Tribe.
Only half-grown boys nearing adulthood.
Even the so-called elders were not frail; they were hardened hunters, trackers, and veterans.
"You brought them out deliberately," Karl said one night. "You were testing the outside world."
Tímei lowered his head in silence, his expression complex with shame and relief.
Then his gaze drifted to his right hand—the hand that had once been burned to ruin and now, impossibly, had been restored to its former state. That miracle alone erased any lingering doubt in his heart.
He had made the right choice.
From that moment on, Tímei offered unwavering loyalty. He guided Karl through the mountains without hesitation, leading him toward rival tribes and hidden settlements.
With each victory, Karl absorbed more warriors into his growing force.
The Burning Tribe alone numbered between four and five thousand people when fully assembled, scattered across defensible valleys and forest strongholds. And even then, Tímei insisted this was not the full population of the High Mountain Clans.
They were not centralized like the Andals of the Vale.
They were scattered—isolated, yet bound together by blood, trade, and ancient customs.
Among them, the Burning Tribe was already considered one of the strongest.
Despite the faint stigma of betrayal, Tímei did not believe he had done wrong. Survival came before pride.
The process of bringing these people under Karl's banner was complicated—but never difficult.
Karl accepted their allegiance without arrogance.
This was the first true step in his conquest of the mountain clans.
"I swear to you," Karl declared, standing before them, "wherever my territory reaches, that land will be yours as well. That is my promise."
The hatred between the High Mountain Clans and the Andals of the Vale stretched back hundreds—perhaps thousands—of years. Karl had no intention of forcing their integration under the hollow authority of his temporary title.
Such an act would be idiocy.
These people were wealth—the most precious resource of all.
They were his foundation.
He would not abandon them in the Vale.
Still, the campaign could not accommodate everyone. Moving thousands through the mountains was impossible.
Karl left behind more than two hundred warriors to guard the Burning Tribe's lands. The rest—over five hundred seasoned fighters—marched with him.
His force swelled to nearly eight hundred.
Under the guidance of these "locals," Karl pressed deeper into the Bright Moon Mountains.
After destroying one small tribe and subduing another, Karl encountered a formidable opponent.
The Black Ear Tribe.
Their chieftain was named Zíké.
And Karl remembered his daughter very clearly.
She was small but powerfully built, her chest flat as a boy's, skin darkened by sun and wind. She was not beautiful, her laugh hoarse and sharp—but Karl recognized her instantly for what she was.
A warrior.
The Black Ear Tribe practiced a brutal custom. After killing an enemy, they severed the ears and kept them as trophies—symbols of honor and proof of victory.
The woman possessed forty-six such trophies.
The battle against the Black Ear Tribe was fierce.
Karl personally entered the fray—not for glory, but because these warriors now belonged to him.
Even a single death felt like a wound to his own flesh.
The Black Ear Tribe numbered nearly a thousand fighters. They were disciplined, savage, and fearless.
There was no room for maneuver warfare in the dense terrain.
Karl chose a frontal assault.
He wore no armor.
He did not draw the gilded longsword at his waist.
Instead, he seized whatever weapons lay nearby and waded into the enemy ranks like a living storm. Wherever he passed, bodies fell.
The confidence of the Black Ear Tribe shattered.
When both weapons in Karl's hands finally broke, he seized a particularly prominent warrior and dragged him atop a rocky outcrop.
Before the eyes of both armies, Karl lifted the man above his head.
With one hand gripping the warrior's face and the other forcing open his jaw, Karl tore him apart—slowly, brutally—from the mouth downward.
Flesh split. Bone cracked. Screams cut short.
Blood drenched Karl from head to toe.
The battlefield fell silent.
The Black Ear Tribe surrendered.
Karl spared Zíké and ordered him to lead his people to the Burning Tribe's territory. He took three hundred warriors—and Zíké's daughter, Zǐlā—with him.
"I will conquer you," Zǐlā said shamelessly, "in a woman's way."
"I'm not interested," Karl replied coldly.
"That won't stop me."
Tímei watched quietly.
"She's not courting you," he said later. "She's refusing to accept defeat."
"I know," Karl replied calmly. "If she were chieftain, this war would have cost more lives."
Soon after, news arrived.
Shàgā, son of Duōfū—the leader of the Stone Crow Tribe—had united the remaining clans.
They were marching to war.
Karl smiled.
An army of over two thousand gathered against him.
The battle was decisive.
The mountain clans were crushed.
When it ended, two-thirds of their warriors lay dead.
Shàgā was dragged before Karl in chains.
"You have two choices," Karl said quietly. "Serve me—or watch your people vanish from history."
In the end, Shàgā bowed his head.
"I accept," he said hoarsely.
Karl smiled.
"Then welcome," he said. "And first—find water. You stink."
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