Night never lasts forever. No matter how long or how bloody it becomes, dawn always arrives as promised.
When the first pale light of morning finally crept over the horizon, the Braidwood Valley remained wrapped in thick, lingering fog. The world was silent except for the distant cawing of ravens, their harsh cries echoing faintly through the mist like omens left behind by the night's slaughter.
A thin veil of white haze drifted through the lush valley, clinging to the ground and coiling around ancient stone walls. Inside the castle fortress of House Brackwood, corpses lay scattered everywhere—on stairways, beside doors, in courtyards, and along battlements. Blood had soaked deep into the moss-covered stones, staining the old green growth into a strange, sickly mixture of dark red and blackened brown.
The castle had changed hands.
Atop the two massive square towers that once flew the golden roaring lion of House Lannister, nothing remained but bare stone. The banners had been torn down in the night, ripped away along with the lives that had defended them.
Now, standing proudly on the watchtowers at each corner of the city walls, were soldiers wearing the colors of House Stark. They stood alert and disciplined, scanning the fog-shrouded valley with steady eyes. Their presence extended far beyond the castle itself—Stark sentries could be seen all the way up the surrounding hills, ensuring that no enemy movement went unnoticed.
Where the lion once roared, the direwolf now watched.
These men, who had fought through the long night without rest, were exhausted to the bone. Yet they continued to work, forcing themselves forward through sheer will. Some cleared debris from broken gates, others dragged bodies away from streets and towers. The fallen—Lannister soldiers and mercenaries alike—were hauled beyond the city of Crowtree and dumped together in a muddy, open field.
There was no time for proper rites or burial. War did not allow such luxuries.
Within the valley itself, the common folk of Crowtree remained hidden. Doors stayed barred, shutters closed tight. From narrow cracks in wood and stone, fearful eyes peered out at the unfamiliar banners and armored men now occupying their home. After a night of fire, steel, and screams, the castle had been claimed by strangers, and no one dared step outside.
Whispers passed from room to room, breath held tight in fear. Not a single soul ventured into the streets.
Inside Crowtree Castle, the ground was churned into thick mud by boots and blood. Wooden fortifications stood half-broken, while further within lay the godswood—a sacred place now heavy with silence.
At its center stood an ancient weirwood tree.
Or rather, what remained of one.
The massive trunk was gray and lifeless, its branches bare and twisted. Long ago, it had died, yet the face carved into its bark still stared outward, hollow and unmoving. Thick red sap—like dried blood—had seeped from the carved eyes and mouth, streaking down the trunk.
Karl stood before it.
He wore the same armor as he had the night before, though his waxed wool hood was gone, lost somewhere amid the chaos of battle. His innermost layers were soaked through, water mixed with blood dripping steadily from gaps in his plate armor and pattering softly into the mud below.
He rested his massive warhammer head-down in the ground, both hands gripping the handle as he stared up at the dead tree in silence.
For a long moment, he did not move.
"My lord."
The voice came from behind him.
"We've found members of House Brackwood who were imprisoned by the Lannister soldiers."
Karl did not turn immediately.
"According to them," the speaker continued, "they are the children of Earl Tytos Brackwood. They wish to see you."
Hall stood behind him, posture straight, his armor splattered but his expression clear and alert. Despite having worked through the entire night, he showed little sign of fatigue. He bowed his head respectfully as he delivered his report.
Karl finally turned, glancing at him with mild surprise.
"The children of Earl Tytos Brackwood?" he repeated, a faint note of doubt in his voice.
"Yes, my lord," Hall nodded. "They were imprisoned in a stone chamber by the Lannisters. Along with them were several important individuals—craftsmen, a maester, and a few household servants."
"They were all held together," Hall added, lifting his hand and pointing toward the right side of the castle. "Directly beneath the tower next to the main gate."
Karl followed the direction of Hall's finger, his eyes narrowing slightly. He immediately recognized the location.
That was where the Lannister forces had made their final stand the night before.
It had been their last line of defense.
Karl's lips curved faintly.
Unfortunately for them, their enemy had been something closer to a walking siege engine than a man.
When his warhammer had swung through the air, the sound it made was not merely a whistle—it was the scream of compressed wind. And when it struck, the only noise left behind was the sickening crack of shattering bone.
There had been no time for screams. No drawn-out cries of pain.
Men had simply fallen.
That final defensive line had collapsed like wet parchment, torn apart with a single, brutal charge.
"So," Karl said calmly, "it seems they planned to use hostages to force negotiations?"
Hall hesitated, scratching the back of his head with an embarrassed grin.
"Possibly," he admitted. "Though… none of the hundred or so prisoners we captured mentioned anything like that."
Karl chuckled softly.
"Then nothing of the sort happened."
"Of course not," Hall laughed along with him.
With that, both men silently agreed to absolve themselves of any lingering guilt. If the enemy had intended to bargain, they had failed to speak fast enough.
Karl turned back toward the weirwood tree, his gaze once more settling on the carved human face. He studied it for a moment, the red sap trailing down like frozen tears.
A strange, thoughtful smile crossed his face.
Then he lifted his hammer from the ground and turned away.
"Let's go see them," Karl said as he began walking in the direction Hall had indicated. "And while we're at it, find out exactly what happened here in Crowtree."
After a few steps, he paused and glanced back.
"Oh—and tell Kesi I want a full report," Karl added. "I need to know how many Lannister troops fled from this area, and which directions they took. He'll know how to handle it."
"Yes, my lord," Hall replied immediately. "I'll inform him."
Karl nodded and continued forward.
With each step, his blood-stained armor clanked heavily, the sound echoing through the ruined corridors. The noise startled a flock of ravens perched in the branches of the dead weirwood. They erupted into the air with harsh cries, circling above Crowtree like a swirling black cloud before gradually dispersing toward distant, unknown lands.
When Karl arrived at the stone chamber Hall had described, he immediately noticed the guards.
Stark soldiers stood watch, having replaced the Lannister men who once held the position. They were arranged neatly along the walls, ten to twenty of them at a glance, weapons in hand and posture disciplined.
As Karl entered, every one of them turned to look at him.
Their expressions varied—shock, awe, admiration—but all carried the same underlying meaning.
They were looking at a living legend.
Karl offered them a calm, gentle smile in return, then shifted his gaze toward the group gathered in the center of the room.
The chamber was wide, likely once used as a dining hall. Tables, benches, and chairs were scattered about, though most had been pushed aside. In the middle sat more than a dozen people—nervous, exhausted, and silent.
Karl's eyes immediately settled on the five children among them.
They stood out without effort.
Four boys and one girl.
The youngest, a girl no more than seven or eight years old, clutched the sleeve of an older boy beside her. The eldest looked fifteen or sixteen, his posture stiff but protective, standing between the younger ones and the armed men around them.
They were unmistakably the center of the group.
Karl walked toward them without hesitation.
Jon Snow stood off to the side, lingering rather than helping with the cleanup like the others. Karl barely spared him a glance.
As he passed, Karl casually handed his warhammer to Jon.
The weight nearly dragged Jon's arm downward.
And Karl kept walking.
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