This was Karl's first time leading such a large force on his own.
Although the cavalry detachment under his command numbered only a little over two hundred men, that was already a considerable responsibility for someone who had never before commanded troops independently. As the column set out, minor problems inevitably arose—misjudged distances, uneven pacing, disagreements over rest intervals, and the constant challenge of managing both men and horses.
Fortunately, none of these issues were serious.
They were quickly identified, discussed, and resolved.
Rather than frustrating him, these small hiccups actually made Karl feel quietly pleased.
Leading a cavalry force in an age dominated by cold steel and muscle power was vastly different from anything he had experienced before. Every forced march, every adjustment to speed or formation, gave him firsthand insight into the realities of medieval warfare—insights no book or secondhand account could truly convey.
This journey alone had already taught him more than months of idle planning ever could.
Though the force was not charging at full speed, the continuous gallop of more than two hundred mounted men still created an overwhelming presence. Whenever they passed through towns or villages, the thunder of hooves echoed like distant thunder, raising clouds of dust and drawing fearful glances from behind doors and shutters.
Yet the smallfolk of the Riverlands did not panic.
News of the turmoil sweeping across the Seven Kingdoms had already reached even the most remote villages. War had become an expected guest—unwelcome, but no longer surprising. When Karl's bannered cavalry passed through, the villagers merely watched in silence, clasping their hands in prayer to the Seven, hoping that the coming storm would pass them by quickly.
Karl's mission was clear.
He was to reach Riverrun, assess the state of the war, and—more importantly—determine Tywin Lannister's military deployments in the Riverlands.
To that end, Karl deliberately chose an unconventional route.
Instead of marching straight south, he led his force toward Seaguard.
The logic was simple. If he wished to approach Riverrun from the north while avoiding unnecessary delays, bypassing the Blue Fork of the Trident was the most efficient option. Crossing at towns like Ramsgate or Fairmarket would require long detours and congested routes—luxuries they could not afford.
Time, now, was life.
By skirting the Blue Fork's upper reaches, Karl could save more than half the distance.
Of course, this meant passing through Sevenstreams and the Witches Mire, a region infamous for its mud pits, broken roads, and treacherous terrain. This was where the Blue Fork was born—its waters scattered into countless streams and ditches before converging again farther south.
It was difficult land.
But Karl judged that the risk was acceptable.
Seaguard's position near the coast and upstream from the Blue Fork made it an ideal stopping point. There, they could rest, resupply, and prepare for the next stage of the journey.
In this way, Karl killed two birds with one stone.
They stayed in Seaguard for only a single night.
At dawn the next day, after feeding the horses and replenishing what supplies they could, Karl ordered the column to move again. Compared to the slow, grinding pace of an infantry army, a cavalry force moved like the wind.
By the end of that same day, after successfully bypassing the Blue Fork, they had already reached Stone Hill.
Karl reined in his horse and looked ahead.
Stone Hill rose gently from the surrounding plains, crowned by the ruins of an old castle. Its crumbling walls still clung stubbornly to the hilltop, though time and neglect had long stripped them of their former glory.
No one remembered the castle's original name anymore.
"Stone Hill" was simply what the locals called it now.
"Tonight, we'll rest here," Karl said, surveying the terrain as he spoke with Jory Cassel. "Tomorrow, we'll need to find nearby villages or towns to resupply."
Jory nodded without hesitation.
From Riverrun to Stone Hill—taking into account their detour around the Blue Fork—Karl had led the force here in only four days.
The speed was remarkable.
But speed came at a cost.
Men and horses alike consumed supplies at an alarming rate, and no cavalry unit could carry enough provisions for an extended march. At most, a single resupply could sustain them for three to five days.
For that reason, Karl had already decided on a strict rule: every two days, they would seek out fresh supplies wherever possible.
Better cautious than dead.
Tywin Lannister's strategy in the Riverlands was still unclear. If the Lannisters were employing a scorched-earth policy—burning fields, slaughtering livestock, and stripping villages bare—then finding food would become increasingly difficult.
Even if the worst had not yet reached this area, Karl preferred to prepare for it.
Casually, he asked, "Do you know of any nearby villages or towns that might supply us?"
Jory shook his head.
As a Northman who had rarely left the North, he knew little of the Riverlands' geography.
Karl expected as much.
He dismounted, climbed partway up the hill, and gazed out at the landscape. The countryside was deceptively peaceful—rolling fields, scattered woods, and winding streams glinting under the sun.
Pulling a map from his saddlebag—a detailed chart obtained from House Frey—Karl studied it carefully.
"Hmm…" he murmured. "About half a day's ride farther south, there should be a castle called Crowtree."
Jory stepped closer, peering at the map even though he couldn't read it properly. He simply followed Karl's finger as it traced the route.
"According to this," Karl continued, "Crowtree is the ancestral seat of House Brackwood."
After memorizing the details, Karl folded the map and stowed it away.
"Before nightfall," he said firmly, "we should send out scouting parties."
"Since there was once a castle here, there must be farmland nearby. Farmers won't stray too far from arable land."
Jory nodded approvingly.
"You're right, Karl. We have time."
He found himself increasingly impressed by the young man before him. Not only was Karl meticulous in planning, but he also possessed a depth of practical understanding rare for someone of his age.
And, Jory thought, he was terrifyingly good in a fight.
His gaze drifted to the massive antlered helm and the heavy warhammer hanging from Karl's saddle.
"Then you'll stay here and manage the camp," Karl said. "We'll send out a dozen riders, paired off, to scout a few leagues south."
He had no intention of pushing too far. There was no urgency that warranted unnecessary risk.
At their current pace, Riverrun was less than a week away.
Jory agreed readily.
The camp was quickly established. Horses were tended first—fed, watered, and checked for injury. The men ate dry rations and rested where they could, wrapping themselves in animal skins and taking shelter among the ruins.
After a short rest, Karl gathered Kesi, Jon, and several experienced Stark cavalrymen. In total, they formed six small teams.
Karl chose Jon to accompany him.
The others, led by Kesi and veteran riders, fanned out in different directions.
Since there was no pressing danger, Karl kept his pace slow, riding alongside Jon toward Crowtree.
The Brackwood Valley was known to be broad and fertile. If they failed to find supplies today or tomorrow, Karl fully intended to approach House Brackwood directly.
If all went well, this would be their final resupply before Riverrun.
"Lord Karl," Jon suddenly said, his voice rising with excitement. "Is that a village ahead?"
Jon had ridden at the front, his youthful enthusiasm undiminished despite days in the saddle. He had been careful not to interrupt Karl's thoughts, but now he could no longer contain himself.
They crested a small ridge.
Below them lay what appeared to be a village.
But the excitement on Jon's face froze almost instantly.
"Wait…" he exclaimed. "What is that?!"
Karl frowned and urged his horse forward.
As he reached Jon's side, the scene below came into sharp focus.
An armed force—about thirty mounted men—was rampaging through the village.
Smoke rose from burning homes.
Screams echoed faintly.
Karl's eyes hardened.
"It's the West's army," he said coldly. "They've spread this far already…"
With his keen eyesight, Karl could see far more clearly than Jon.
These were Lannister riders.
And the Riverlands were already bleeding.
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