The wind sang its endless song around the high towers of the Eyrie.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
Ancient.
Within the council chamber, warmth struggled against the chill. A long table stood at the center, maps spread across it—marked with routes, passes, and scars of old problems that had never truly healed.
At its head sat Michel Arryn.
Still.
Silent.
Watching.
Before him stood the lords of the Vale.
Lord Yohn Royce, iron and steady.
Lord Grafton, merchant-minded and sharp.
Lord Corbray, proud and dangerous.
Lady Anya Waynwood, wise and practical.
And the young heir of House Hunter, restless with the hunger of youth.
"My lord," Lord Grafton began, his voice tight with concern, "the mountain clans grow bolder."
He gestured toward the map.
"Our caravans are struck more frequently."
"Trade is disrupted."
"Merchants complain."
Lord Corbray leaned forward slightly.
"It is no longer nuisance."
"It is insult."
The Hunter heir spoke next, too quickly.
"Then we end it."
All eyes turned.
"We march," he said, fire in his tone. "We hunt them. Kill them."
A simple solution.
A young one.
Michel said nothing.
Instead—
He looked to Yohn Royce.
Royce shook his head slowly.
"It has been tried."
His voice carried memory.
"And it always fails."
He stepped closer to the map.
"When we advance…"
His finger traced the mountains.
"…they vanish."
"Into caves."
"Into paths we do not know."
A pause.
"And when we withdraw…"
His eyes hardened.
"They return."
The room fell quiet.
Because this was truth.
Old.
Uncomfortable.
Lady Waynwood spoke next.
Measured.
Calm.
"Then we do not chase them."
She gestured to the trade routes.
"We protect what is ours."
"Increase patrols."
"Stronger escorts for caravans."
Lord Grafton nodded.
"Yes. Secure the roads."
The Hunter heir frowned.
"That is defensive."
Lady Waynwood did not look at him.
"It is effective."
Silence followed.
All eyes turned—
To Michel.
He had not moved.
Not once.
But his gaze—
Had deepened.
"Increase patrols…"
He repeated softly.
Then—
He shook his head.
"That solves the symptom."
The room stilled.
"Not the problem."
He rose slowly.
Walked toward the map.
"The Vale has fought this war for generations."
His voice was calm.
But heavy.
"We attack."
"They disappear."
"We defend."
"They adapt."
"We endure."
A pause.
"And nothing changes."
No one argued.
Because no one could.
Michel's hand rested lightly on the mountains drawn in ink.
"They do not fear us."
That truth hung sharp in the air.
"Because they do not fight as we do."
He turned.
"They do not need victory."
"They only need survival."
Lord Corbray narrowed his eyes.
"Then what do you propose?"
Michel's gaze moved across each of them.
"We change the war."
Silence deepened.
"No more chasing shadows."
"No more reacting."
His voice sharpened slightly.
"We control the mountains."
The Hunter heir frowned.
"How?"
Michel stepped closer to the table.
"Forts."
A pause.
"Small."
"Strategic."
"Placed in passes."
Lord Royce's eyes flickered.
Interest.
"Permanent presence," Michel continued.
"Supply lines."
"Signal towers."
"Archers."
Lady Waynwood leaned forward slightly.
"You mean to occupy the mountains."
Michel nodded.
"Not all."
A faint, cold smile touched his lips.
"Only the parts that matter."
Lord Grafton exhaled slowly.
"That would be… expensive."
Michel looked at him.
"So is losing caravans."
Silence.
He continued.
"And…"
Now—
His voice changed.
Lower.
Sharper.
"We offer terms."
That surprised them.
"To mountain clans?" Corbray said, disbelief clear.
Michel did not flinch.
"Those who submit…"
A pause.
"We give them purpose."
"Work."
"Coin."
"Food."
Lady Waynwood's eyes widened slightly.
"You would integrate them?"
Michel nodded once.
"Divide them."
Now—
Understanding began to spread.
"Those who accept…"
"They become ours."
"And those who refuse…"
His voice went still.
Cold.
Final.
"We remove."
No hesitation.
No doubt.
The room fell silent.
Not from confusion.
But from realization.
This was not the old way.
This was control.
Lord Royce straightened slightly.
A slow nod forming.
"This could work."
Lord Grafton looked thoughtful.
"It would stabilize trade."
Lady Waynwood exhaled.
"End the cycle."
Even Corbray—
Did not argue.
Only the Hunter heir remained quiet.
Because for the first time—
He understood.
This was not war.
This was strategy.
Michel returned to his seat.
"The Vale will not bleed forever for the same wound."
The wind howled outside.
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