As Jon Snow and Samwell Tarly rose from their kneeling positions and took their seats at the long wooden table, the atmosphere inside the tent slowly settled.
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the faces of those present, illuminating expressions of uncertainty, tension, and thought.
Karl El, however, had already composed himself.
By the time all four men were seated, he had cleared the clutter in his mind and begun piecing together a rough outline of what needed to be done next. The letter they had received had changed everything—completely and irrevocably.
Nothing would ever be simple again.
Across the table, Tyrion Lannister leaned back slightly in his chair, his sharp eyes drifting toward the last person still standing.
The young scholar.
Rosen.
A mere apprentice from the Citadel, originally brought along as a temporary assistant, now stood awkwardly at the edge of the gathering, unsure whether he belonged among such powerful figures—or whether he should quietly disappear.
Tyrion's lips curled faintly.
"Scholar Rosen," he said lightly, though there was steel beneath his tone, "shouldn't you make some sort of gesture?"
The words were casual, but the implication was not.
The Citadel prided itself on neutrality. Maesters were meant to serve knowledge, not kings. They advised lords, recorded history, and avoided political entanglements.
But Tyrion was no fool.
Neutrality, in times like these, was often just another word for hesitation.
And hesitation… could be fatal.
Rosen stiffened slightly under Tyrion's gaze.
"I understand what must be done," he said after a moment, forcing calm into his voice. "Lord Tyrion Lannister… Your Majesty."
The addition of that final title was deliberate.
Submission.
Acknowledgment.
Survival.
Only then did Rosen take his seat, though the stiffness in his posture betrayed his unease.
Karl El watched the exchange quietly.
Rosen looked like a man being cornered—like a timid spouse caught between conflicting powers, unsure which word might trigger disaster.
Karl El exhaled softly and decided to ease the pressure.
"Scholar Rosen," he said in a calmer tone, "we will require your knowledge moving forward. Your work with the ravens has already proven invaluable."
Rosen nodded quickly.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
What else could he say?
He had already been pulled into the storm. There was no stepping back now.
The Question That Changes Everything
Karl El turned his attention back to Tyrion.
"Let's return to the main matter," he said. "What do you think about the contents of that letter?"
Tyrion's expression sharpened slightly.
He had spent the entire night analyzing its implications. Every word, every hidden meaning, every possible outcome.
He knew exactly what Karl El was asking.
"Your Majesty," Tyrion began slowly, "what you truly wish to know is this—"
"Should you return to King's Landing and claim what is rightfully yours… or proceed with your original plan and secure Casterly Rock first?"
Karl El nodded.
"I don't believe Stannis Baratheon or Renly Baratheon will simply hand the throne over to me."
The statement hung in the air.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Naivety Meets Reality
Samwell frowned, clearly confused.
"But… you have King Robert's will," he said hesitantly. "You are his acknowledged heir. Why wouldn't they accept that?"
Tyrion let out a soft, almost amused scoff.
He tapped his silver goblet lightly, the crisp sound cutting through the silence.
"Because," he said, "before this… Stannis Baratheon was the rightful heir."
The words landed like a hammer.
Jon Snow froze.
A memory surfaced—one of those quiet, tense dinners at Winterfell, where Eddard Stark had spoken in hushed tones about succession and legitimacy.
About Stannis.
About pressure.
About politics.
And then—
Something clicked.
Jon's eyes widened.
"Your Majesty…" he began cautiously, "could it be… that Stannis Baratheon was behind King Robert's death?"
The accusation was dangerous.
Deadly, even.
The tent fell silent.
Samwell's mouth dropped open, his face draining of color.
Karl El leaned forward, resting his hands on the table as he closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
After a moment, he spoke.
"Stannis did push for clarity regarding succession," he admitted. "But the matter was also handled through the Small Council, led by the Hand of the King."
He opened his eyes.
"By the laws of the realm, he was indeed the legitimate heir."
A pause.
"But that does not exclude him from suspicion."
Another Suspect
Before the silence could settle again, Tyrion spoke.
"Let's not forget," he added casually, "that Renly Baratheon—and members of House Tyrell—were present during the king's hunting trip."
Another possibility.
Another shadow.
Samwell swallowed hard.
This was no longer speculation.
This was a web of potential betrayal.
Tyrion leaned forward slightly, his tone almost conversational.
"So let's consider the situation."
"If either Stannis or Renly suspects that His Majesty will seek vengeance once he takes the throne…"
"Or if they fear losing their own claims to power…"
"Or even if they believe they may be targeted regardless of guilt…"
He spread his hands.
"What do you think they'll do?"
No one answered.
They didn't need to.
The Inevitability of Conflict
Jon felt his throat tighten.
Samwell shrank into his seat.
Rosen's expression grew increasingly bitter as realization dawned on him.
Politics.
This was politics.
Not honor.
Not justice.
Survival.
Tyrion's voice softened—but only slightly.
"Even if it's just suspicion… they will never acknowledge your claim."
"And perhaps…"
Jon couldn't finish the thought.
Because they all knew.
War.
It was inevitable.
The Collapse of the Original Plan
Karl El fell silent again, his fingers pressing lightly against his temple.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
His original plan had been meticulous.
Ten years.
That was all he needed.
Ten years to strengthen the Westerlands.
Ten years to prepare.
Ten years to face the coming Long Night—the true enemy.
And then—
Victory.
Glory.
A united realm under his rule, forged not through civil war, but through salvation.
By then, no lord would dare challenge him.
Not Stannis.
Not Renly.
Not anyone.
But now—
Everything had changed.
Robert's sudden death.
His last-minute legitimization.
The forced inheritance.
It wasn't a gift.
It was a trigger.
A spark thrown into dry tinder.
The Coming Storm
War would return to the Seven Kingdoms.
Bigger.
Bloodier.
More destructive than before.
And worse—
It would come before the Long Night.
Before the real threat.
Karl El exhaled slowly.
Would the realm survive both?
Or would it collapse under its own weight?
Tyrion's Analysis
Tyrion broke the silence.
"We must decide quickly," he said.
"We currently command five thousand men."
"A significant force—but not enough for prolonged uncertainty."
He continued calmly.
"If we march to King's Landing, war is unavoidable."
"If we choose the Westerlands, we abandon the throne—and will likely be forced to swear fealty to whoever claims it."
He looked directly at Karl El.
"This is a turning point."
"Whatever you choose… will define everything that follows."
The Decision
Silence.
All eyes turned to Karl El.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then—
He lowered his hand.
His eyes opened.
Clear.
Resolute.
"No."
Tyrion frowned.
"I will not choose either option."
Confusion spread across the table.
Karl El stood slowly, drawing the gilded sword at his side—the blade once belonging to the Kingslayer.
Steel gleamed in the candlelight.
"If fate wishes to toy with me…"
His voice hardened.
"Then I will strike back."
Tyrion blinked.
"…What do you mean?"
Karl El's grip tightened around the sword.
"I will take both paths."
Orders of War
Before anyone could respond, Karl El began issuing commands.
"Tyrion Lannister—"
"You will take command of the Northern Army."
"Jon Snow—you will assist him."
"Samwell Tarly—you will accompany them."
Tyrion's eyes widened slightly.
"I want you to march immediately to Casterly Rock."
"Secure it."
"Hold it."
"That fortress will determine everything."
Karl El stepped closer, his gaze sharp.
"Do not fail me."
The Final Move
Tyrion hesitated.
"And you?"
Karl El turned away.
"I'm going to King's Landing."
The words were calm.
But final.
"To see my father one last time."
"To claim what he left behind."
He paused at the entrance of the tent.
"And to uncover the truth."
His voice dropped.
"Whether this is fate…"
"Or something far more dangerous."
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