When the warhammer was handed to him, Jon Snow accepted it almost without thinking.
At first, everything seemed normal.
But the instant his fingers closed around the haft, Karl released his grip.
The sudden and overwhelming weight dragged Jon's arm downward with brutal force.
Clang—!
The iron head slammed into the stone tiles, sending a sharp metallic echo reverberating through the chamber. Jon himself was yanked forward, his balance completely shattered, and for a brief, humiliating moment, it looked as though he might fall flat on his face.
Gasps followed instantly.
Jon barely managed to steady himself before stumbling, his boots scraping loudly against the floor as he regained his footing. His face burned hot, a deep crimson creeping up his cheeks and ears.
If that had been the end of it, he might have survived with his dignity only slightly bruised.
Unfortunately, it was not.
A girl's clear, unrestrained laughter rang out across the chamber.
The sound hit Jon harder than the hammer ever could.
He wished, with all sincerity, that the stone floor would crack open and swallow him whole.
Before the laughter could continue, a large hand clamped firmly over the girl's mouth, muffling her amusement into helpless snorts. The boy who did so shot her a sharp look, clearly mortified on Jon's behalf.
That small mercy barely preserved what little remained of Jon's fragile pride.
Karl, meanwhile, appeared thoroughly entertained.
He stepped forward, gave Jon's shoulder a friendly pat, then squeezed his arm with deliberate strength, grinning broadly.
"Tsk," he said lightly. "You'll need to train more, buddy."
The casual remark earned another ripple of suppressed laughter from the surrounding soldiers.
Jon lowered his head, muttering something unintelligible, his ears burning brighter than embers.
Just then, the boy who had silenced his sister stood up from a nearby stool. He looked to be around Jon's age, though he was noticeably taller—almost unnaturally so. He smoothed down his clothes nervously before stepping forward.
"V-Valiant Knight," he began, voice wavering despite his effort to sound composed. "Thank you… thank you and your army for saving us."
He bowed stiffly, eyes flicking away before he forced himself to look up again.
"M-May I have the honor of knowing your name?"
His hands trembled faintly at his sides.
This was Hoster Blackwood, the third son of Earl Tytos Blackwood.
The moment he had noticed how the soldiers instinctively deferred to Karl—how even Jon, who seemed to occupy a special position among them, followed Karl's orders without hesitation—Hoster had realized who truly commanded this force.
As a noble, especially one now burdened with responsibility, he knew he could not afford discourtesy toward the man who had saved his family and castle.
Karl raised an eyebrow slightly, then gave an approving nod.
"My name is Karl Stone," he said. "Knight of King Robert Baratheon's Guard, and commander of the vanguard."
His voice was steady, confident, carrying the weight of authority earned through battle rather than birth.
"You're Earl Blackwood's children?"
Karl studied the boy in front of him with open curiosity.
Hoster stood nearly seven feet tall—taller even than Karl himself—but his frame was thin to the point of fragility. His limbs were long and narrow, his shoulders narrow, and his hands looked more suited to holding books than blades. A wild tangle of curly hair crowned his head, making him appear awkward and somewhat ungainly.
Seven hells, Karl thought. This kid could look a knight in the eye already, but he'd snap like a twig in a real fight.
"Yes, esteemed Karl Stone—Stone—," Hoster stumbled over the name, quickly correcting himself. "Knight, it is an honor to meet you."
He swallowed and straightened his back.
"My name is Hoster Blackwood. I am the third son of my father, Earl Tytos Blackwood. In his absence, I am currently serving as the Acting Lord of Crowtree."
He gestured quickly behind him.
"These are my younger brother and sisters. I apologize for their earlier rudeness toward you and your men."
The children peeked out timidly from behind him, eyes wide as they stared at Karl's towering figure and scarred armor.
Karl waved his hand dismissively.
"No harm done," he said.
Truthfully, Karl knew he had orchestrated Jon's embarrassment on purpose.
Jon Snow occupied an unusual position within the group—both squire and something more, though Karl had never pried too deeply into the boy's origins. Still, that status wasn't an excuse to skulk about while others worked, nor to avoid social interaction altogether.
Karl understood Jon's withdrawn nature well enough. Growing up as a bastard in a noble household left scars deeper than any blade could carve. Jon had been taught discipline, honor, and responsibility—but little about camaraderie or confidence.
A bit of teasing, Karl believed, could do the boy some good.
Eddard Stark had taught Jon how to lead, how to endure, and how to stand firm.
What he hadn't taught him was how to laugh at himself.
Karl turned his attention back to the Blackwood children and offered a broad smile.
Unfortunately, he forgot how intimidating he looked at the moment—bloodstained armor, hardened expression, and all.
The children squeaked softly and immediately retreated behind Hoster again.
Hoster flushed in embarrassment.
"Please forgive them, Ser Karl," he said quickly.
Karl laughed and raised both hands.
"They're adorable. Truly."
The tension eased slightly.
Sensing that formalities were only making the boy more nervous, Karl decided to get to the point.
"Lord Hoster Blackwood—"
"Please," Hoster interrupted quickly, bowing his head. "You may simply call me Hoster."
Karl nodded.
"Very well, Hoster. Let's sit and talk."
He took a seat at the long stone table.
"But before that, I'll need your help with something. Please have your people notify the commoners outside the city. Gather them here at Crowtree."
His tone grew more serious.
"The battlefield needs to be handled properly. Quite a few people died last night. My men are exhausted, and this must be done respectfully."
Hoster immediately turned to look behind him, seeking guidance.
A maester in a pale linen robe stepped forward, followed by a slightly overweight middle-aged man dressed in fine but practical clothing.
"Young Master," the maester said calmly, "Steward Frank and I will see to this matter. Please remain here and speak with Ser Karl."
Hoster exhaled quietly, relief flickering across his face.
"Thank you, Maester Zemo. Steward Frank."
Karl watched the exchange closely, interest stirring in his chest.
This boy—young, awkward, and clearly inexperienced—was already relying on his advisors properly.
Interesting, Karl thought.
He turned and gestured toward Jon.
"Jon. Go with them. Take Hall too."
Jon nodded immediately, grateful for the excuse to leave the room, and followed them out without hesitation.
Only once the door closed did Hoster finally relax and sit down across from Karl.
His younger siblings were revealed once more, clinging to his chair.
Karl smiled faintly.
"Send them to rest. And make sure you eat as well. You all need something warm in your bellies."
Hoster's eyes widened with genuine gratitude.
"Thank you, Ser Karl. I will have the kitchens prepare food for you and your men immediately."
Noble pleasantries followed—stiff, formal, and somewhat exhausting.
Karl now fully understood why Robert despised such interactions.
Hoster was clearly terrified of offending him, trying desperately to strike the perfect balance between gratitude and authority. It was obvious this was his first time acting as a lord in truth.
Once matters were settled and arrangements made, Karl leaned forward.
"Alright, Hoster," he said. "Now that everything else is handled—tell me what I need to know."
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