"What?! Is that the army from the West?!"
Jon Snow's voice cracked the moment the words left his mouth.
At not yet fifteen years of age, the sight before him made his blood run cold. His fingers tightened instinctively around the reins as he stared at the figures in the distance—armored riders, banners, movement unmistakable even from afar.
"But… shouldn't they still be in Riverrun?" Jon said hoarsely. "This place isn't far from the Blue Fork. We just came out—"
The rest of his words dissolved into something shapeless, swallowed by fear.
They were too close.
Far too close.
The Riverlands were already burning, but Jon had not expected to run headlong into the West's soldiers so suddenly—so brutally.
Karl heard the tremor in Jon's voice.
He reined in his horse slightly and turned his head, looking back at the boy. For a brief moment, his gaze lingered on Jon's pale face, the unmistakable fear written plainly across it.
Then Karl raised a hand and patted Jon's head.
The gesture was not gentle, nor particularly comforting—but it was firm.
"If you're scared," Karl said calmly, "then wait here."
Jon's breath hitched.
"If you have courage," Karl continued, his voice steady and unyielding, "then charge with me."
No reassurance.
No comforting lies.
Only two choices.
Jon's pupils shrank.
The meaning behind those words struck him like a hammer.
Before he could respond—before he could even draw a breath—Karl had already turned away.
He reached to the side of his saddle and lifted the antlered greathelm Robert Baratheon had given him before the campaign. The metal caught the dull light, its antlers unmistakable, its presence overwhelming.
Karl placed the helm upon his head.
The world narrowed.
Then, with a single arm, he lifted his massive warhammer, muscles flexing beneath armor as if the weapon weighed nothing at all.
Ready.
Karl turned one last time, looking at Jon through the narrow slit of his helm.
He said nothing.
A sharp tug on the reins.
A low shout.
The chestnut warhorse beneath him surged forward, hooves pounding as it charged down the slope like an unleashed beast.
Mud and grass exploded upward, clods of earth flung violently into the air.
They struck Jon's face.
Cold.
Wet.
Real.
The impact snapped Jon out of his daze.
He raised a hand, wiping the mud from his cheek. His breathing steadied, his thoughts sharpening as he stared at the retreating figure of his knight-lord.
Karl had already ridden more than a hundred meters ahead.
Alone.
Jon lowered his hand slowly, letting it fall to the hilt of the longsword at his waist.
Pale Justice.
His fingers trembled.
So he clenched them harder.
And then, with a sharp pull, he drew the blade.
The steel gleamed.
"Your name is 'Pale Justice'…" Jon murmured. "Was that what it meant all along?"
The sword Karl had returned to him after that incident felt heavier now—not in weight, but in meaning.
Fear still coursed through him.
But something else ignited alongside it.
A fire.
Jon looked ahead—to the lone knight charging toward an enemy force dozens of times larger than himself.
Something surged in his chest.
With a sharp kick to his horse's flank, Jon spurred it forward.
He raised Pale Justice high and screamed with everything he had.
"Charge!!!"
---
Two riders burst from the hillside outside the village, galloping straight toward the Westermen camp.
It was madness.
Or so it seemed.
The Lannister sentries spotted them almost instantly.
A single rider charging might have been ignored as a madman—but two, riding straight at them with no sign of slowing?
The sentry didn't hesitate.
He raised the silver whistle hanging around his neck and blew with all his strength.
The shrill sound pierced the air—sharp, urgent, impossible to ignore.
The soldiers plundering the village froze.
For a heartbeat, there was confusion.
Then training took over.
Men dropped what they were doing. Hands grabbed weapons. Horses were mounted in frantic haste as voices shouted orders back and forth.
"What's happening?!"
A junior cavalry captain was the first to arrive, his expression tense as he galloped up to the sentry.
The sentry pointed.
"There!"
The captain squinted, then frowned.
"Where did these two fools come from?"
He laughed once, incredulous.
"Is there an army behind them?"
His eyes swept the surrounding terrain.
Nothing.
No banners.
No dust clouds.
Just two riders.
Still, caution held him back.
They were deep in the Riverlands, pushing northward. There should have been no enemies ahead of them—but war was full of surprises.
He gathered his men, forming a loose line.
Seconds passed.
No reinforcements appeared.
No hidden charge.
Only those two riders, one already dangerously close.
The captain's lips curled.
"So it really is just them."
He raised his hand.
"Send four men," he ordered coldly. "Kill one. I want the other alive."
Four cavalrymen spurred forward.
As they rode, the captain's gaze lingered on the lead rider—on the golden surcoat, on the unmistakable antlered helm.
"…Baratheon?" he muttered.
The question never finished forming.
A warhammer rose.
Then came the sound.
CRASH!
THUMP!
The captain's eyes widened in disbelief.
Karl did not slow.
He did not hesitate.
Two Lannister cavalrymen came at him from either side, attempting a pincer attack. Their axes swung toward his neck with lethal precision.
Karl's response was casual.
He raised his arm and brought the hammer down in a single, sweeping arc.
The impact was catastrophic.
The rider on his right—and the horse beneath him—ceased to exist as coherent forms. Bone, flesh, and armor exploded outward, painting the air with blood and fragments.
The warhorse collapsed at the waist, its body folding grotesquely before slamming into the mud.
Karl did not even glance at the wreckage.
The second rider was already upon him.
As their paths crossed, Karl threw his left fist forward.
The blade shattered.
Steel screamed as it broke apart.
Karl's hand closed around the man's throat.
With a slight upward jerk—almost gentle—the man's neck snapped.
Karl tore him from the saddle and flung the lifeless body aside without breaking stride.
Two dead.
In seconds.
The remaining two cavalrymen froze in horror.
Karl's lips curled into a cruel smile beneath the helm.
He seized the armored corpse still in his grasp and hurled it like a stone.
The third rider tried to pull back, reins yanked hard as panic overtook him.
Too late.
The body slammed into him head-on.
Bones cracked.
The impact knocked him limp, but his foot remained caught in the stirrup. His terrified horse dragged him along the ground, his lifeless body bouncing grotesquely as it fled.
Karl didn't look back.
One remained.
That final rider had been slower—just enough to survive those few heartbeats longer.
Seeing the carnage, he turned his horse away, desperation etched across his face.
He tried to flee.
Karl drew his gilded longsword in one smooth motion.
One pass.
One flash of steel.
A head flew free, spinning through the air before landing in the mud.
The headless body continued riding for several steps before sliding from the saddle.
Karl shook his blade, flinging blood aside.
Hammer in one hand.
Sword in the other.
He stared at the enemy camp ahead with cold, merciless eyes.
Fox, the warhorse beneath him, surged forward again.
---
Behind him, Jon Snow watched it all unfold.
His mouth was dry.
His heart thundered.
He had never seen anything like this.
Four men.
Gone.
In moments.
Karl wasn't fighting.
He was slaughtering.
Fear twisted inside Jon—but it no longer paralyzed him.
Instead, it sharpened his resolve.
He lowered Pale Justice and rode harder.
The boy from Winterfell was gone.
Only Jon Snow remained.
And he was charging into war.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)