Boom!
Night had long since fallen. It was well past midnight.
A fierce wind suddenly swept across the land, causing trees and shrubs throughout the mountains and plains to sway violently, their leaves rustling like countless whispers in the dark.
Almost immediately after, a blinding flash of lightning tore across the night sky, as if splitting the heavens in two.
The blue-violet arc of electricity illuminated the clouds at high altitude, lingering for a brief instant before vanishing just as quickly. Only a ghostly afterimage remained, burned into the retinas of anyone unfortunate enough to be looking up.
Then came the thunder.
It arrived late—but with terrifying force.
The deafening roar crashed down from the sky, shaking the earth itself.
Behind Braidwood Valley stood a modest mountain, not particularly tall, with Crow Tree City nestled against its back like a barnacle clinging to stone.
Thanks to the region's favorable sunlight, the surrounding slopes were densely planted with fruit trees cultivated by House Braidwood over generations. Orchard after orchard stretched across the land, orderly and prosperous, a picture of pastoral beauty by day.
But beneath the veil of night, none of that beauty mattered.
Hidden among those fruit trees, more than two hundred figures moved silently.
They had crossed the ridge behind the Vale under cover of darkness and now infiltrated the orchard nearest to Crow Tree City, advancing along the natural slope of the mountainside.
Their movements were precise. Disciplined.
Not a single torch was lit.
Boom—!
Another thunderclap rolled through the sky.
This time, before the sound reached the ground, lightning reflected briefly in the eyes of the Northern soldiers hidden among the trees.
They were cavalry—but not mounted now.
Every man was fully armored, crouched low, breathing carefully as rain-soaked leaves brushed against their shoulders. Over their leather and chainmail armor, each wore a waterproof poncho made from waxed wool felt, dull and dark to avoid reflecting light.
Drip. Drip.
At first, it was only a faint sound—raindrops striking leaves one by one.
Within seconds, it became a steady downpour.
The rain had arrived.
Karl lowered his head, tugged the brim of his hood down, and leaned closer to the dozen men nearest him. His voice was low but sharp, cutting cleanly through the rain.
"Listen carefully. Our first objective is to take Crow Tree City and immediately seize control of the gate facing this side."
"We're short on manpower," he continued, eyes hard. "But that doesn't matter. We don't need to hold the castle."
"Our goal is simple—kill as many Lannister soldiers as possible, as quickly as possible."
"Nothing else matters."
He paused.
"Understood?"
"Understood!" the whispered replies came back in unison, scattered through the orchard like echoes.
Karl nodded once.
"Good."
Then, without another word—
"I'll go first."
Before anyone could stop him, Karl threw back his hood and stepped forward. His left hand reached out, gripping a grappling hook. The coiled rope attached to it hung from his waist, damp with rain.
Lightning flashed again.
And in that brief illumination, the massive, tower-like figure vanished.
His steps were impossibly light for a man of his size, his movement ghostlike as he sprinted through the rain-soaked darkness.
"Move! Keep up!" someone hissed urgently.
Jon Snow was the first to react.
He drew his longsword in one smooth motion, threw back his hood, and shouted, "Forward!"
Then he ran.
Seeing the young recruit take the lead, the Northern cavalry refused to fall behind. One after another, blades were drawn, shields lifted, and boots sank into the increasingly muddy ground as the force surged forward.
Rain poured harder with every step.
Karl, racing ahead through the storm, finally caught sight of Crow Tree City.
Ancient stone walls loomed out of the darkness, slick with moss and rain, their silhouette rising like a crouching beast against the night sky.
After confirming that no one followed directly behind him, Karl acted decisively.
He tossed the grappling hook aside, letting it clatter deliberately against stone to mislead any watchers.
Then, just before colliding with the city wall, he pushed off the ground.
His foot struck the stone with explosive force.
Using the narrow gaps between the bricks as footholds, Karl climbed upward in a fluid motion, rainwater streaming off his armor as he vaulted onto the top of the wall.
Inside the gatehouse archway, fate had placed a single guard.
The man had risen in the night to relieve himself, standing beneath the arch to shield himself from the rain. He hadn't yet had the chance to finish or retreat when—
Whoosh.
A sound sliced through the rain.
Before the soldier could turn his head, a figure appeared in front of him.
Karl flicked his wrist.
The gilded longsword—once wielded by the Kingslayer—materialized in his hand.
Without hesitation, he threw it.
The blade crossed the short distance like a streak of gold, piercing cleanly through the man's neck. Bone shattered. Flesh tore. The cervical vertebrae snapped as the sword embedded itself into the stone wall behind him.
"Ngh—"
The sound was barely audible.
Blood erupted under pressure, spraying outward before the rain swallowed it whole.
Thud.
The body collapsed, half within the dry shelter of the archway, the torn neck exposed to the storm outside.
Karl stepped forward, grasped the sword's hilt, and pulled it free from both corpse and stone.
The blade was pristine.
Thanks to the pre-applied Weapon Enchantment, it hadn't suffered even the slightest nick—though Karl noticed the weapon's attributes felt subtly altered, as if sharpened by slaughter itself.
He did not linger.
Within moments, seven or eight more guards in the gatehouse fell silently, their heads severed or throats torn open before they could cry out.
Karl found the massive turntable mechanism used to raise the city gate.
He turned it.
Slowly, with a groan of ancient stone and iron, the heavy gate—reinforced with thick steel bands—began to rise.
From outside the walls, Jon Snow and the others burst from the orchard just in time to see the gate opening before them.
Crow Tree City stood exposed.
Like an impatient maiden, it welcomed them in.
There was no time for hesitation.
Jon Snow charged first.
The Northern soldiers followed, flooding through the gate in a roaring tide of steel and rain.
Within half an incense stick's time, the peaceful valley fortress descended into chaos.
Screams echoed through the rain-soaked streets.
Steel met flesh.
The Lannister soldiers—dragged from sleep by thunder and slaughter—barely had time to reach for their weapons before blades struck them down.
Some lived.
Most did not.
Prepared soldiers in full armor versus half-awake men scrambling from their beds—
It wasn't a battle.
It was a massacre.
Of the thousand Lannister troops stationed in Crow Tree City, fewer than four hundred remained standing by the time any order could be restored. More than half lay dead or wounded, bleeding into the rain-washed streets.
And then—
Clang.
Clang.
A new sound cut through the chaos.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
A giant figure emerged through the rain.
He wore full plate armor, towering over all others. In his hands, he dragged a two-handed warhammer, its head smashing against stone with every step. The handle was as thick as a child's arm.
Lightning flashed.
The figure stopped before the hastily formed Lannister defense line.
Slowly, he raised his head.
Upon his helmet rose massive antlers.
In the darkness, all that could be seen was a black silhouette—but when lightning struck again, a golden, crowned stag gleamed across his chest, radiant and terrible.
"B-Baratheon?!"
The knight who recognized the sigil barely finished speaking.
The warhammer rose.
It swung.
And heads shattered like clay.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)