By the time Karl finished hunting down the last of the West's soldiers, dusk had already surrendered to night.
Darkness spread across the land like ink spilled over parchment, thick and suffocating. There was no moon tonight, no scattered starlight—only an endless black canopy that swallowed the world whole.
It was a night well suited for slaughter.
Karl stood over the final Lannister soldier, watching the man convulse weakly as the Blight spell ate away at his remaining strength. The smell of rot mixed with blood hung heavily in the air. The man's armor—once polished red and gold—had dulled into something filthy and indistinguishable.
When the soldier finally stopped moving, Karl did not linger.
He turned his horse around and began retracing his path, heading back toward the small village that had already been ravaged by the Western cavalry patrol earlier that evening.
Fox followed obediently behind him, the warhorse's flanks and neck splashed with drying blood. Karl held the reins loosely in one hand, his other resting near the hilt of his sword. His movements were steady, unhurried—those of a man who had long since grown accustomed to death.
Outside the village, a large bonfire burned fiercely.
It was not a pyre meant to burn bodies.
It was simply there to push back the darkness.
The fire crackled, casting long, twisted shadows across the broken fences, collapsed doors, and trampled fields. Embers scattered beneath Karl's boots as he stepped into the village, Fox lowering his head and snorting softly as if uneasy with the lingering scent of fear.
"Who goes there?!"
A sharp voice rang out from above.
"Wait—!"
"It's the Boss!"
From a rooftop hidden in the darkness, Hall leapt to his feet. The moment he recognized the towering figure approaching from the edge of the firelight, his face lit up with excitement.
He jumped down clumsily from his position and hurried forward.
But after only a few steps, Hall froze.
The man standing before him looked less like a human—and more like something dragged straight out of a nightmare.
Karl's once-golden surcoat, embroidered with the crowned stag, was now completely soaked in blood. The original color was impossible to discern. Under the flickering firelight, the cloth seemed to emit a faint, ominous black sheen, as if shadow itself clung to him.
His massive frame stood motionless, antlered helmet tilted slightly downward. The shadows dancing across the ground made it seem as though something was writhing beneath his feet.
Yet Hall recognized the helmet instantly.
There was no mistaking it.
It was the Boss.
The Stark soldier who had been keeping watch beside Hall instinctively held his breath. His eyes widened, fixed upon the giant who had returned from the darkness as calmly as if he had merely gone for a walk.
"B-Boss…!" Hall swallowed hard.
For the first time in a long while, the usually loud and shameless Hall found himself at a loss for words.
Standing this close to Karl, his skin prickled violently.
It felt as if an invisible, icy wind was blowing straight through him—one sharp enough to slip between bones and sink into his organs.
Only then did Karl seem to fully register his surroundings.
At the sound of Hall's voice, he lifted his head slightly. Beneath the helmet, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Hall?" Karl said calmly. "You're on sentry duty?"
"Don't you dare slack off."
No one could see his expression.
But the tone of his voice—combined with the heavy silence and the trembling shadows cast by the fire—somehow made the atmosphere even more terrifying.
"O–of course!" Hall stammered. "I'm the most loyal and honest man in the Black Stone Mercenary Group!"
"You can trust me completely, Boss!"
Faced with Karl's unseen gaze, Hall felt tears well up. He forced an awkward grin onto his face, desperately trying to prove his loyalty to both Karl and Black Stone.
Only then did Karl seem to realize something was off.
He paused, then reached up and removed his helmet.
Cold night air brushed against his face. Beneath the blood and exhaustion, Karl's features were calm—human.
He laughed once, low and rough, and casually tossed the blood-soaked reins toward Hall.
"You bastard," Karl said. "You're only fit to lead my horse."
"And even if you want to lick my ass, you'll still have to queue."
Hall caught the reins reflexively, relief flooding his chest.
"It's my honor to lead the Boss's horse!" he said with a grin. "But Boss… if ass-licking requires queuing, may I ask what number I am?"
Karl raised his thumb and index finger, leaving a tiny gap between them.
"From the King's Road north of the Wall," he said calmly, "to south of Storm's End."
"About that long."
"So get lost."
He punctuated the words with a solid kick to Hall's backside.
Karl then strode toward the center of the village, where most of the men had gathered.
"Ow—!"
Hall stumbled forward, then froze.
The familiar warmth was still there.
Human warmth.
Only then did his racing heart finally calm.
He patted his chest and sucked in a deep breath.
"Damn…" he muttered. "That was terrifying."
"Just now, when he looked at me… even though I couldn't see his eyes, I swear I thought my head was about to fall off my neck."
Karl ignored Hall's muttering.
But Hall's reaction had reminded him of something important.
His killing intent was still too strong.
He had been lost in thought earlier, thinking about matters far removed from this battlefield, and for a brief moment hadn't even realized he had already returned to the village.
The murderous aura he had accumulated from killing over forty men had unconsciously leaked out.
Now that he was aware of it, Karl suppressed it deliberately.
As he walked deeper into the village, his gaze fell upon the bodies lined along the street.
They lay awkwardly sprawled across the ground, clad in red-and-gold armor. Some had their necks twisted at unnatural angles, their heads rolled to the side. Others bore crushing wounds from his initial charge.
These were the men he had killed earlier—those left behind during the first wave of his assault at dusk.
Karl counted silently.
Twenty-one bodies.
Combined with the twenty-three he had chased down afterward, the West's cavalry patrol totaled forty-four men.
A sizable force.
Karl frowned slightly.
Why would Tywin Lannister send such a large cavalry patrol merely to plunder a small, insignificant village?
Before he could dwell further on the question, a voice called out from behind him.
"Karl—my lord!"
Karl turned.
Jon Snow stood a short distance away.
Of course.
In this group, only Jon would address him that way.
The Stark cavalry called him Karl Stonestone, Knight.
Jory Cassel called him Captain.
As for the old hands of Black Stone, their manner of address was far more… informal.
"How is it?" Karl asked directly.
There was no small talk.
His gaze flicked briefly to the longsword at Jon's waist.
Blood still clung to its edge.
"You killed someone?" Karl asked.
Jon stiffened instantly.
His face drained of color.
"Two," Jon replied quietly. "One of them… asked me to give him a quick death."
"And the other?" Karl pressed.
Jon's fingers curled unconsciously.
Fear flickered across his face.
"The other one…" Jon swallowed. "He tried to kill you."
Karl nodded, as if he had already known the answer.
"You did well, Jon."
Jon looked up sharply.
Karl continued evenly, "You must understand something. On the battlefield, the moment your opponent picks up a weapon, he becomes your enemy."
"You don't know how your enemy will treat you."
"So what you should do is kill him with your weapon."
"That is only right and proper."
"There's no need to feel guilty."
The last of Jon's restraint shattered.
Hot tears spilled from his eyes and streaked down his face.
"But he just wanted to live!" Jon shouted hoarsely. "He only had one hand! He couldn't even hold his sword properly!"
Jon buried his face, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
Karl stepped forward.
He placed a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder, steady and grounding.
Then he walked past him.
"But aren't you the same?" Karl said calmly.
"Only if you live will those who love you remain unharmed."
He paused, then continued in a low, unwavering voice.
"Remember this."
"As long as they are your enemy—do not hesitate."
"Because your mercy will only turn into a blade aimed at your own throat."
"And at the throats of everyone connected to you."
The bonfire crackled.
Shadows swayed.
And Jon Snow stood there, trembling—not from fear, but from the weight of understanding settling into his heart.
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