The shock of what had just happened did not belong to the knights of the Westerlands alone.
Jon Snow, who had finally gathered the courage to charge forward alongside Karl Stone, witnessed everything with terrifying clarity.
From his position just behind Karl's shoulder, he saw it all—not as a distant observer, but as someone close enough to smell the blood, hear the bones break, and feel the ground tremble beneath galloping hooves.
For a brief, irrational moment, Jon wondered whether the man riding before him was even human.
What kind of monster could swing a warhammer with such force that a fully armored knight—and the horse beneath him—were crushed into a cloud of flesh and shattered steel?
What kind of man could, in the space of a single breath, smash an enemy's weapon to fragments with a punch, seize the man himself, and then use his body as a projectile?
Jon watched in disbelief as Karl hurled a knight—still wrapped head to toe in plate armor—through the air like a pebble.
The flying body traveled more than ten paces before slamming into another rider.
There was no scream.
Only the dull, wet sound of impact.
The second knight was smashed into the mud, his armor caving inward. His horse dragged his lifeless body across the ground, the reins still tangled around his hands.
Jon's eyes followed the corpse as it passed him.
The man's neck bent at impossible angles. Half his shoulder and chest had collapsed inward, forming a hollow where ribs and organs should have been.
Jon swallowed hard.
This can't be real, he thought.
This has to be a nightmare.
But reality refused to wake him.
The last of the four knights died with what should have been the cleanest end—a single sword stroke that sent his head spinning into the dirt.
And yet, somehow, that death felt the most unreal of all.
As Jon struggled to breathe, to think, to understand, Karl had already plunged deeper into the enemy cavalry.
At least thirty riders remained.
They wore the crimson and gold of House Lannister, but the moment they saw Karl crash into their formation, their courage shattered.
Their first instinct was not to fight.
It was to flee.
They were not blind.
They were not fools.
They had all seen Gregor Clegane—the Mountain that Rides—and they had seen what he did to men.
And the thing tearing through them now?
This was another Mountain.
Perhaps worse.
The cavalry captain understood this faster than anyone.
Only moments earlier, he had been issuing calm, orderly commands.
Now, the instant he saw Karl eliminate four men in such impossible fashion, his mind went completely blank.
Without hesitation, he yanked the reins and spun his horse around.
Run.
That was the only thought left in his head.
As long as his horse isn't faster than mine, I can escape.
Even if he's another Mountain—it doesn't matter.
Fear drove him beyond reason.
He didn't even reach for his whip.
Instead, he drew his sword and stabbed his own horse in the rump, carving a shallow but painful wound.
The animal screamed and surged forward in terror.
Behind him, screams erupted.
Karl had entered the cavalry like a butcher stepping into a slaughterhouse.
He did not distinguish rank or position.
In his left hand, he wielded the gilded longsword once carried by the Kingslayer—the blade that had slain a king.
With calm, ruthless efficiency, he used it to sever heads as though he were harvesting wheat.
In his right hand, the warhammer roared.
Each swing shattered the air itself, crashing down with thunderous force.
Armor crumpled.
Bones exploded.
Horses collapsed mid-gallop.
Walls and wooden pillars along the village street cracked and burst when struck by the hammer's momentum.
Blood sprayed everywhere.
Bone fragments flew.
Entrails spilled across the ground, trampled into mud by hooves.
Karl was drenched from head to toe.
Even the antlers of his helmet bore a grisly decoration—a chunk of shattered heart, torn free when he wrenched the hammer from a man's chest.
It hung there, swaying with each movement.
Karl Stone, charging through the chaos, was no longer a man.
He was a living legend.
A prehistoric beast.
The Giant King of Westerosi songs and nightmares, given flesh.
Yet reality was not a bard's tale, nor a game where one man could slaughter hundreds with a single swing.
Even Karl's fury had limits.
In the brief span of the charge, only a dozen men truly died by his hand.
The rest learned from their captain.
They turned their horses and fled in all directions, using their comrades as shields.
When Karl finally slowed, plucking a strip of flesh from the crack in his helmet, the battlefield had fallen eerily quiet.
Corpses lay scattered everywhere.
Beyond them, fewer than twenty riders were still visible—tiny figures fleeing the village like hunted animals.
"Jon!"
Karl's voice cut through the haze.
"K-Karl, my lord!"
Jon nearly dropped his sword.
He snapped out of his trance, breathing hard, staring at the blood-soaked giant before him.
"I'll chase the rest," Karl said without pause. "Finish off anyone who's still breathing."
"Then gather any surviving villagers. Count the dead."
"If anyone's alive, send a messenger to Stone Hill. Call our troops here."
His orders were sharp and immediate.
Karl did not hesitate.
These men could not be allowed to escape.
If they lived, they would continue spreading terror through the Riverlands.
They had to die.
And Jon Snow would not be riding with him.
Jon had strength—Karl had trained him well—but that did not mean he should face this.
Karl knew Jon had never killed a man with his own hands.
Not truly.
And Karl would not force that moment upon him.
"Y-Yes, my lord!" Jon replied, forcing himself to stand straight.
Karl nodded once.
Then he turned Fox and thundered after the fleeing knights.
Jon did not notice the faint green lights drifting from Karl's back, attaching themselves to several lone riders.
The spell [Withered Rhombus] took hold quietly.
Karl intended to deal with the larger group first.
Once Jon was far behind, the warhammer and longsword vanished from Karl's hands.
In their place appeared a simple wooden longbow.
Before drawing it, Karl produced a bottle of golden liquid from thin air.
"Buddy," he said lightly, "have a drink."
Fox tilted its head, then curled its lips around the bottle.
In an instant, the bottle dissolved into light and flowed into the horse's mouth.
Fox's heavy breathing vanished.
Its stride lightened.
Fatigue disappeared as though it had never existed.
Karl smiled faintly, nocked an arrow, and aimed at the fleeing figures.
"You kill people and think you can run?"
"I won't let a single one of you escape."
Twong.
An arrow flew.
A rider ahead jerked violently as the shaft punched clean through his iron helmet.
He fell without a sound.
"Thud."
The cavalry captain looked back just in time to see it.
Blood-covered.
Relentless.
Still chasing.
Fear crushed him.
"Damn it! He's still coming!"
He screamed, stabbing his horse again, harder this time.
Another arrow flew.
Another body fell.
Warmth spread through his trousers as tears streamed down his face.
This was hell.
And Karl Stone was its executioner.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)