There were not many members of the High Mountain Clan Tribe involved in the ambush.
Counting those hidden deep within the forest, Karl had killed roughly thirty people in total.
After dealing with the enemies concealed among the trees, the fury that had burned in Karl's chest finally began to cool. His breathing steadied, and he followed the same mountain path back toward the position he had left earlier.
His body was drenched in thick, foul-smelling blood, the stench clinging to him like a second skin. Yet the longsword in his hand was clean and spotless, its blade reflecting faint light beneath the forest canopy, as though it had never tasted flesh.
When Karl returned to the clearing, the scene before him was far quieter than before.
The horses that had panicked during the ambush were gone, having scattered and fled in all directions. The surviving members of the group were silently collecting the fallen bodies, their expressions heavy and subdued.
Jon Snow knelt apart from the others.
He was using the cloak that had once rested on his own shoulders to gather Kennedy's remains.
Karl watched as Jon bent down and picked up a fragment of skull shattered by a stone. The piece was still sticky, tangled with strands of hair and traces of brain matter. Jon hesitated only briefly before placing it carefully to the side.
Moments later, he reached into the muddy ground, prying loose an eyeball that had been crushed almost beyond recognition beneath trampling hooves. He wiped away the filth with trembling fingers, restoring it as best he could before placing it together with the skull fragments.
He worked slowly, clumsily—but with determination.
When Jon finally wrapped what remained of Kennedy in the cloak, preserving at least the final dignity of his fallen companion, Karl released a quiet sigh.
The rage that had driven him moments earlier dissolved completely, leaving behind only exhaustion and grief.
He's grown, Karl thought.
Compared to the terror and confusion Jon had shown during their first blood-soaked encounter in that village long ago, this was a different person. Jon Snow had learned to face death—both that of enemies and of companions.
Even the act of gathering a comrade's remains no longer broke him.
Karl gave a slight nod in approval.
He sheathed his sword and stepped out of the forest.
During the fighting in the Riverlands against the Lannisters, Karl had taken only the dozen or so men who had followed him from the beginning. The rest had been soldiers assigned to him by Eddard Stark.
He had been careful with them—meticulous, even.
Aside from a few injuries, none had died under his command.
These men were not just subordinates. They were the foundation of his future power, the roots from which everything else would grow.
And yet, this seemingly insignificant journey into the Vale had cost him one of them.
Kennedy's death was absurd, senseless—and unforgivable.
To say Karl was not angry would be a lie.
That fury was the reason he had shown no mercy to the wildlings hidden in the forest.
Hall noticed Karl's return and followed his gaze to Jon Snow.
He dropped the corpse he had been dragging toward a burial pit and walked over, his expression grim.
"My lord—"
Karl turned toward him.
Hall pointed to four bodies lying nearby, separate from the mangled remains Karl had left in the woods.
"These were the ones who attacked us from the cliff. There were six in total. We only managed to keep four."
"The other two escaped. We didn't dare chase them deeper into the forest."
Karl looked at the bodies.
Each bore multiple wounds, but all had deep slashes across their throats—clean and decisive.
"It was right not to pursue them," Karl said calmly. "You don't yet have enough experience fighting in dense terrain. And you don't know how many more might be waiting."
"As for Kennedy's revenge—" His voice hardened slightly. "I've already taken it."
Relief flickered across Hall's face.
"Yes, my lord."
Karl was not surprised that Hall and the others had been able to deal with the remaining attackers.
Compared to Samwell—who was currently kneeling nearby, pale-faced and retching weakly—their performance was more than acceptable.
Karl had trained these men personally. He had taken them into battle before. They had seen blood.
In fact, those enemies may as well have been left specifically for them to handle.
Their equipment alone far surpassed that of the wildlings, who lived hand to mouth in the mountains.
As for the two who escaped—
Karl didn't care.
Now that he held the title of Warden of the East, the High Mountain Clans were a problem he would resolve sooner or later.
They would be given only two choices.
And the survivors could serve as messengers, announcing his arrival to their people.
With those thoughts settled, Karl turned his attention to the final figure lying helplessly against the rocks.
Samwell Tarly.
"How are you feeling?" Karl asked. "Still alive?"
"It seems that Qarth warlock bathing you in bull's blood didn't help much."
Karl crouched down and handed him a waterskin made from a goat's stomach. Inside, he had soaked lemon slices, giving the water a sharp, refreshing taste.
Sam didn't hear most of what Karl said.
When he turned his head and saw Karl's blood-soaked face up close, his stomach lurched violently. He tried to vomit, but only dry retching came out.
Eventually, he collapsed against the stone wall, gasping.
With trembling hands, he accepted the waterskin and drank greedily.
After several mouthfuls, color slowly returned to his face.
He stared blankly at the corpses scattered around them, then looked up at Karl with confusion.
"Am I… still alive?"
The answer came immediately.
Karl lightly kicked the outside of Sam's thigh.
Sam screamed in pain, his cry bordering on sobbing. Hall and Jory Cassel looked over in alarm.
Sam curled into himself, clutching his leg.
"Well," Karl said calmly, "you can feel pain. Congratulations. You're alive."
He smiled gently—almost kindly.
"So, if possible, I'd appreciate it if you recovered quickly and helped out."
"If you stay lying there much longer, I can't guarantee the others won't get strange ideas about your backside."
Sam shuddered violently.
He scrambled to his feet, returned the waterskin, and hurried toward Jon, limping slightly but moving far faster than before.
Karl watched him go, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"I'll find the horses and wash up," he ordered.
He followed the fresh hoofprints leading away from the clearing.
Samwell hadn't been entirely wrong.
The High Road was brutal.
Steep mountains, dense forests, narrow paths barely wide enough for one person—it lived up to its other name: The Uphill Road.
In many places, it was less a road and more a jagged trail of stone.
Donkeys would have been better suited than horses.
Karl realized that, despite faint memories, this was the first time he had ever truly traveled this road.
Familiar, yet foreign.
After recovering the horses and briefly returning to the game world for a hot bath, Karl rejoined the others.
They buried Kennedy.
Karl placed a broken branch into the earth as a simple marker.
The group continued on.
Four days passed.
No more ambushes came.
Finally, they reached the massive stone fortifications guarding the Vale.
The Bloody Gate.
Karl looked up at the twin watchtowers and released a quiet breath.
A man stepped onto the arch bridge.
Grey-haired. Weathered. Blue-eyed.
Ser Brynden Tully.
When Hall announced Karl's many titles, the silence that followed was deafening.
Karl coughed lightly.
"Ser Brynden," he called. "May we enter the Vale?"
Recognition dawned in Brynden's eyes.
After a long pause, he bowed.
"I salute you, Lord of the Warden of the East."
"The Eyrie awaits your arrival."
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