After crossing the Neck, the transition from the cold, harsh North to the gentler Riverlands was almost shocking. The air grew milder, the breeze softer, and even the night sky over the Green Fork looked less unforgiving. Compared to the long, bitter northern nights, the Riverlands felt almost luxurious.
Karl stood quietly by the riverbank, the cool wind brushing against his cheeks as he studied the dark scenery before him. The moon was only a faint sliver behind the clouds, but even that dim light made the river's surface shimmer. He had originally planned to wander around the countryside looking for Lannister scouts, but now that he had reached the Green Fork, instinct told him that he didn't need to roam aimlessly. Moving south along the river under the cover of night would greatly increase his chances of finding exactly what he sought.
He didn't bring a horse, and he made sure no one except Jon and a handful of close companions knew that he had slipped out of Riverrun. No banners, no escort, nothing that could reveal who he was. Just himself and the shadows.
Keeping close to the riverbank, Karl moved downstream. From time to time, he passed small farming villages or lonely huts with dim candlelight peeking through cracks in their shutters. Other than that, he saw no man-made structures—no guards, no watchtowers, no outposts. It confirmed what he suspected: the Riverlands were lightly monitored at night, and the Lannister presence, if it existed, would be hidden.
He didn't know how long he had been jogging along the river—perhaps an hour, maybe more—when a flicker of yellow in the darkness caught his eye.
A bonfire.
Its flames licked upward like a beacon in the night, completely exposed, as if begging to be noticed.
Karl slowed immediately and crouched low, slipping behind a thick willow tree. Then, with practiced silence, he moved forward through the brush until he had a clear view of the camp.
A small squad—only five men—sat around the fire. Their armor reflected the flames in shades of red and gold.
Lannister soldiers.
Karl's lips curved upward.
"These must be the scouts from the West that Old Frey mentioned."
From his perch in the tree, he examined them carefully. They were relaxed—too relaxed—talking casually as they roasted something over the fire. He made no move to rush in. Patience was more useful than muscle tonight. He sharpened his senses, listening to their faint conversation whenever the wind carried their words to him.
Eventually, after eating their fill, the soldiers wrapped themselves in bedrolls and drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Karl raised one hand. A faint green glow flickered at his fingertips.
A moment later, silence swallowed the riverside completely.
Jumping lightly down from the tree, he walked directly toward the campsite. The bonfire crackled softly as he stepped into its warm glow, illuminating the crimson lion sigils and polished golden trim on their armor.
No doubt about it—this group belonged to the Lannister western host.
His nighttime gamble had paid off.
Karl crouched beside one man—older, stockier, likely the senior of the group—and slapped him lightly on the cheek twice.
The man's brows furrowed. He groaned and blinked awake, confused and still half-dreaming. Before he could even focus on Karl's face—
A fist slammed directly into his jaw.
He fell backward onto the ground with a pained grunt, only to feel the cold edge of a dagger press against his throat.
"Mercy!"
The reaction was immediate—far faster than Karl expected. The man's eyes widened in panic, arms lifting instinctively in surrender. The moment he felt the sting of the blade against his skin and the warmth of blood beginning to form, he shut his eyes tightly and didn't dare move a muscle.
Karl paused, staring at him in faint surprise.
"Looks like I really caught a big fish."
He pressed the dagger a little tighter.
The Lannister soldier—no, not a soldier, not with that quick response—opened his eyes just enough to glance around. His breath caught in his throat when he saw his companions lying still on the ground, not one of them making the slightest movement.
All dead, or at least… very convincingly so.
His shiver ran deeper.
Then, swallowing hard, he spoke in a trembling voice, "S-sir… don't kill me. I'll tell you anything you want to know. Anything!"
Karl's expression didn't soften. He allowed the man to continue speaking, observing his tone, his fear, his honesty.
As the man's gaze finally landed on Karl's attire—or lack thereof—his confusion deepened. Whoever this attacker was, he wore no sigils, no colors, nothing that indicated his identity.
After a moment of frantic calculation, the captive added hastily, "If you spare me… I can be ransomed. The Lannister price is always fair."
Karl blinked.
A knight?
He hadn't expected that.
"Oh? You're a knight, are you?" he asked, amusement slipping into his voice. "Then tell me your name, ser."
Seeing Karl's interest, the man exhaled shakily, relieved. "My name is Bent Banford. I am a knight from Harrenhal!"
"Harrenhal… Banford…" Karl tilted his head thoughtfully. "Then why are you wearing Lannister armor? Ah—your house sigil must be on your underclothes."
He searched the man, stripping away his armor piece by piece with efficient movements. Sure enough, embroidered beneath the metal plates was a grey cloth decorated with a black hooded man outlined in a border of flames—the Banford family sigil.
Karl nodded. "So you're not lying."
"S-sir," Bent stammered, teeth chattering as Karl stripped him down to nothing but thin underclothes, "I—I am a sworn knight of House Lannister. I have no lands of my own. Armor is expensive…"
He trailed off helplessly.
Karl raised an eyebrow at the honesty.
Soon, Bent was standing in the cold night air wearing only his thin linen garments. The breeze from the Green Fork cut through him like icy needles. Yet he hardly dared to shiver too violently—one wrong move and the dagger might slip.
Meanwhile, his four companions lay motionless on the ground. Bent looked between them and Karl, terror creeping up his spine.
This man had killed four trained soldiers silently, without even waking him until the very end.
Only one type of person could do something like that.
"Are you…" Bent's voice barely rose above a whisper. "Are you a Faceless Man…?"
Rumors of such assassins had spread recently, and Bent had paid attention to them. Now, facing someone who matched every description he'd heard, he could only conclude that he had run into something far more terrifying than a common scout-hunter.
Karl, fully aware of the misunderstanding, felt both amusement and helplessness. He hadn't planned to terrify anyone tonight—but luck had handed him this ridiculous situation: the very first scout he encountered was a knight, and worse, a knight who knew when to abandon pride and embrace survival.
A wise man.
Karl pointed the dagger toward the river. "Stand over there, in the water."
Bent obeyed instantly, wading into the river until the cold water reached his calves. The shock made his teeth clatter more violently, but Karl simply smiled.
"You're honest, Ser Bent Banford. Since you're so cooperative, I'll be polite as well. Now, according to our agreement—tell me how many scouts Tywin has sent out around this area."
"I—I'm not entirely sure," Bent replied, clutching his arms to his chest as the river numbed his legs, "but there shouldn't be many. Our orders focus mostly on monitoring troop movements… not combat."
Karl nodded. The answer fit perfectly with his own deductions. Even if Tywin Lannister intended to pressure Riverrun, extending his lines all the way north to harass the Freys would be foolish. Far too much effort for too little gain. After his conversation with Robert about Joanna Lannister, Karl was even more convinced that Tywin had no real interest in provoking conflicts north of the Trident.
However, Tywin still needed to keep an eye on the Northern forces. Scouts would be essential.
Karl stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. "What else? Don't lie to me. Tywin wouldn't send someone like you just to count heads."
Bent stiffened. A moment later, sensing Karl's resolve, he gave up all thoughts of holding anything back.
He spilled everything.
Their routes. Their reporting schedule. The rough location of two other scouting teams. Tywin's suspected concerns. Even gossip he had picked up from officers.
Karl listened, memorizing everything.
When he had heard enough, he moved with sudden speed—striking Bent on the back of the head and knocking him unconscious.
He dragged the unconscious knight out of the water and laid him beside the riverbank. Then he examined the five bodies again, thinking quietly.
He needed proof, but he didn't need all five.
Two would be enough—Bent Banford being the most important of them.
He slung the knight over his shoulder, grabbed another unconscious scout, and began the long walk back toward Riverrun.
The night wind blew through the trees. The bonfire's embers flickered behind him, then died.
Karl never looked back.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)