Karl had barely finished speaking when he suddenly lunged forward. His boots dug into the soil, sending a spray of dirt behind him as he exploded into motion straight toward the ruined tower. The distance should have taken a dozen steps at least—yet he crossed it in only a handful. His strides were long, powerful, and wild, like a unleashed beast charging through the forest.
Two or three meters from the stone wall, Karl bent low, gathered strength in his legs, and launched himself upward. The sudden commotion made Jon Snow—who had been staring in horror at Bran plummeting from the tower—reflexively turn back.
He only managed a single glance.
And in that impossible, breath‑stealing moment, he saw Karl already at the base of the ruined tower, moving at a speed Jon's mind refused to believe. Before Jon could even make sense of it, Karl reached the wall and leaped again, his boots tapping the stone with the precision of a mountain ibex springing between narrow cliffs. The momentum carried him upward, higher, almost unnaturally agile for a man of his build.
Air rushed around Karl's body as he twisted mid‑air. His other foot found another protruding stone, and with another perfectly timed push, he ascended again. The maneuver should have been impossible—no knight, no sellsword, not even a Braavosi water dancer could move like that. Jon Snow had witnessed Karl train, had sparred with him often, yet even he had never seen such raw, explosive agility.
Karl's massive frame curled into an aerial somersault that defied reason. His cloak billowed behind him like the great dark wings of some northern beast.
And for one heartbeat, time aligned perfectly.
As Karl's body turned, his face lifted upward—and Bran Stark, small, terrified, and falling like a helpless arrow loosed by fate, descended directly into Karl's outstretched arms.
A white blur flashed.
A sharp whoosh sliced through the air.
Jon heard the violent flutter of fabric, like a banner being torn by a storm. His vision blurred for a moment, and before he could blink, Karl and Bran—one falling, one leaping—had crashed into a dense cluster of bushes below with a heavy thud, rolling together in a tangled heap of limbs and leaves.
"Bran!"
Jon didn't think. He didn't breathe. He simply ran. His boots pounded the ground as panic and relief clashed violently inside him.
Karl staggered up first, standing by instinct more than balance. Jon barreled toward him, but Karl only lifted a hand and gave a small, breathless smile. Then he lifted his bearskin cloak.
A small, trembling head peeked out.
Chestnut hair.
Blue eyes wide with shock.
Skin pale as fresh snow.
Bran Stark.
"Bran—Bran, are you alright? Bran!" Jon shouted, voice cracking as he reached them. He grabbed Bran out of Karl's arms with trembling hands.
Bran's body felt stiff, his limbs shaking. But there was no blood. No bone jutting out. No stillness that signaled death. Just terror. Just shock.
Jon's throat loosened, and he let out a shaky exhale as he pulled Bran close, burying the boy's head against his chest. His palms rubbed Bran's back gently, protectively, as he whispered breathless reassurances against Bran's hair.
"It's alright… it's alright… don't be afraid, little brother…"
Warmth seeped back into Bran's frozen limbs as Jon held him. After hovering too close to death's embrace, Bran suddenly shuddered violently—and then wailed. A desperate, heart‑rending sob tore from his throat, one that ripped straight through Jon's chest.
Jon held him tighter, heart cracking.
Then—something glinted.
Jon lifted his gaze to the tower window where Bran had fallen. The empty frame flickered with a brief flash of gold.
"…What is that…?" Jon whispered.
His eyes widened. His breath caught. His mind refused the thought—yet it rose all the same.
Karl's voice cut through the air like cold steel.
"It was the Kingslayer. Jaime Lannister pushed Bran."
Jon felt his mind explode into static. His breath froze. Then the shock melted into a boiling rage that flooded every inch of his body.
"That bastard… I'll kill him," Jon snarled, eyes burning. "I'll look him in the eye and ask him why—why he tried to murder my brother—before I take his head!"
Karl gave him a flat, unimpressed look.
"You?" Karl scoffed. "Let me do it, my dear 'squire' Lord Jon Snow."
Karl brushed past him into the bushes. Jon blinked, confused, still holding Bran protectively. Then he saw Karl bend down and retrieve Jon's longsword—the weapon Jon had dropped in panic.
Karl held it by the blade, eyes cold.
"A soldier shouldn't abandon his weapon," Karl said sharply. "And since you seem to have forgotten what I told you when I gave you this sword… you are no longer qualified to hold it."
Shame burned across Jon's face.
Karl turned away, tightening his grip on the longsword—Jon's sword—letting its steel sing as he flicked it with his thumb.
"Are there any other exits in this tower?" Karl asked, voice low. "If we don't hurry, those responsible for Bran's 'accident' may slip away. And accusing the Queen and her brother won't be simple."
"Q‑Queen?!" Jon stammered, stunned.
Karl exhaled hard through his nose.
"Jon," he sighed, "you truly know nothing."
Jon blinked rapidly, still too shocked to understand.
Karl stepped into the small doorway under the tower, his frame swallowed by the shadows. But his voice echoed back, steady and calm:
"Protect your brother. Don't let me down, Jon Snow."
Then he disappeared into the darkness.
High Above, in the Tower…
Jaime Lannister pulled his head back from the window. For the first time since this began—since he'd shoved a helpless child from the ledge without so much as a raised heartbeat—his expression contorted with real fear.
He had heard shouting below.
Voices.
Movement.
Far too close.
His stomach dropped.
"Damn it," he muttered.
"What happened?" Cersei asked, startled by the sudden change in his demeanor. She stepped forward instinctively, intending to look out.
Jaime seized her arm and yanked her back.
"Don't look," he hissed. "The boy was caught. Someone saw everything."
Cersei's face drained of color.
Panic twisted her features, sharp and vicious.
"This cursed northern place!" she shrieked. "You said no one came here! We have to kill him—kill them all! No one must live! Not a single one!"
Jaime shut his eyes, inhaling sharply.
"He's Robert's bastard… and Ned Stark's bastard…" Jaime said bitterly.
Mentioning the word bastard was a mistake.
Cersei erupted.
"Kill them! Kill him! I want them dead!" she screamed, voice cracking with hysteria. "That little bastard who saw us—he must die! Forget your damned honor—kill them before they ruin us!"
Jaime's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He turned back to the window, eyes narrowed, trying to see through stone and distance. His pulse hammered. His breath cooled.
In that still moment—he made his decision.
He grabbed Cersei's shoulders and shook her hard.
"Listen to me, Cersei! Panicking won't help us."
She froze, chest heaving, eyes wild.
"You need to get dressed," Jaime said firmly. "No one saw you. No one knows. This is my doing—mine alone."
"I will handle it."
His voice was final. Heavy as a drawn executioner's blade.
He shoved her clothes into her arms and pulled on his own shirt and trousers. Then he picked up his gilded sword. It felt heavier now than the day he slit a king's throat.
"Jaime… no…" Cersei whispered, tears filling her eyes. "We can find another way—"
"There is no other way," Jaime said gently.
For a moment, the infamous Kingslayer—the man who murdered a king, the man whose name children feared—was simply a man in love. His smile softened. His voice warmed.
"Cersei, my love," he whispered, touching her cheek.
"I will do what must be done. And you… will walk away from this with clean hands."
"You have nothing to do with any of this."
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)