As he stepped out of the cold stone chamber, Karl rubbed his temples lightly, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes.
The headache was not from exhaustion alone.
He turned and slowly climbed the tower stairs, emerging onto the battlements. From there, he gazed out over the valley below—the Blackwood Valley, stretching wide beneath the pale morning light.
The lingering mist had already begun to dissipate, revealing the scars left behind by war.
Karl rested his hands against the ancient stone wall, its surface rough and weathered beneath his palms. He drew in a slow breath, the cool air carrying the faint scent of damp earth and smoke.
His troubles had little to do with physical fatigue.
Part of his unease came from what Hoster Blackwood had told him earlier—fragments about his father, hints about past arrangements, and the complicated balance of power within the valley.
The rest came from a deeper realization: he still had not fully adapted to the way nobles interacted with one another.
Politics, courtesy, half-truths, and carefully veiled intentions—it all felt far more exhausting than open combat.
Of course, men like Eddard Stark and King Robert Baratheon were exceptions.
They were rough, straightforward, and blunt to the point of recklessness.
But Karl knew better now. Most nobles were not like that.
And whether he liked it or not, he himself had already stepped into the world of nobility.
He exhaled quietly.
Perhaps after this war was over, Robert would grant him land—a fief of his own.
If that happened, he would need a family name, one worthy of being recorded in the annals of Westeros. He would need a sigil as well—something simple yet meaningful, capable of representing his ideals and reminding future generations of their origins.
Then there would be a house motto.
Short. Clear. Powerful.
Something that could awaken pride in his descendants long after his bones had turned to dust.
After that would come marriage—to a noble lady, most likely arranged more by politics than affection. Children would follow, and from those children, a new house would grow.
Slowly, quietly, rooted in the soil of Westeros.
Or perhaps Robert had other plans for him.
With the king, nothing was ever certain.
But no matter what the future held, one thing was clear: Karl was already here.
And he possessed enough strength to claim something for himself.
Still, the time was not yet ripe.
He tapped the stone wall lightly, as if grounding himself in the present, and pushed aside those distant ambitions. For now, survival and stability mattered far more than dreams.
Turning his attention back to the valley below, Karl reflected on the conversation he had just left behind.
Hoster Blackwood had not told him much.
As the third son of Lord Tytos Blackwood, Hoster was neither the heir nor a favored spare. Thin, scholarly, and quiet, he carried himself more like a maester than a knight.
The Lord of Raventree—Crow Tree City, as it was often called—clearly had little expectation of him.
That was no secret in the Riverlands.
Everyone knew that Lord Tytos doted shamelessly on his only daughter, Betha. Compared to her, his sons—especially the younger ones—were little more than afterthoughts.
Thus, what Hoster could provide was limited mostly to local matters: the condition of the city, the state of the valley, and the recent movements of soldiers and refugees.
Even so, once Karl noticed that Hoster was well-read and surprisingly perceptive, the conversation became far more interesting.
When his initial nervousness faded, Hoster's insights into the political situation proved sharp, even insightful. Karl quickly recognized his strengths.
Beyond that, Karl had pressed him for information about his father and about Riverrun.
Unfortunately, Hoster knew only fragments—rumors, secondhand reports, and vague recollections.
As for the Lannisters, he knew even less.
After Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun had summoned his banners under the king's call to arms, Lord Tytos Blackwood had responded immediately, sending a large portion of Crow Tree City's garrison to join the main force.
That decision, while loyal, had stripped the city of its defenses.
Which explained why Crow Tree City had fallen so easily.
Karl did not blame them.
No one could have predicted that Edmure Tully would make such a catastrophic blunder—riding out personally, delivering himself straight into the enemy's grasp, and in doing so pulling out the very stopper meant to hold back the western lion.
With that single mistake, Tywin Lannister's massive host had poured freely into the Riverlands.
The initial defeat triggered a chain reaction.
A butterfly flapped its wings—and the entire region descended into chaos.
Castles fell one after another. Supply lines collapsed. Villages burned.
The Riverlands unraveled, thread by thread.
And so, faced with the Lannisters' sudden rampage, those who had already sent their troops away lost not only their armies but also their homes.
Their lords were captured. Their people scattered or slaughtered.
Even their fertile lands became fuel—resources that fed the enemy's war machine as it ravaged the countryside.
Karl sighed.
He patted the stone wall again and lifted his gaze.
Below him, the valley had fully awakened.
Earlier, when the Lannisters had stormed through, the smallfolk could do nothing but hide inside their homes, praying to survive. Now, under the direction of village elders and surviving retainers, they emerged cautiously.
Men and women moved through the valley, clearing corpses, collecting broken weapons, salvaging what little could be saved.
Their belongings had been looted. Their food stolen.
Many had lost family members in the chaos.
As they worked, a quiet, restrained hatred simmered beneath their movements.
Karl observed them silently, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
Then he noticed something else.
Carts were being gathered—one after another—slowly moving toward the outskirts of the valley.
Most were empty.
Some were drawn by horses without saddles.
Curiosity stirred within him.
"What are they doing?" Karl asked the soldier standing guard nearby.
The man straightened immediately. "Knight Karl, from what I've seen, they're preparing to burn the bodies."
"Burn them?"
"Yes. The Riverlands are warm and damp. If the corpses are left too long, disease could spread."
Karl nodded slowly.
Only then did he realize something else—there wasn't a single forest in the valley.
No great trees. No dense woods.
Instead, the land was filled with houses, mills, barns, and stretches of muddy farmland.
The orchard they had used to infiltrate the city the night before lay further out, beyond the main valley.
"So this was the Scholar's suggestion?" Karl asked.
"I believe so."
Karl's expression turned thoughtful.
"It's the right decision," he said at last. "Very well. Return to your duties. Someone will relieve you shortly. The lord of this place has prepared food for us."
With that, he turned away.
Understanding these small details forced Karl to adjust his plans.
"It seems the Lannisters didn't choose this place at random," he thought.
The two hundred men who had taken part in the night assault were given hot food and drink under the Blackwoods' hospitality.
The battlefield—both inside and outside the city—was cleared in an orderly fashion.
Karl left only the necessary sentries posted, guarding against the possibility of scattered Lannister forces returning.
The rest were ordered to rest.
After a night of relentless rain, marching, and bloodshed, the tension that had kept them alive finally released.
Exhaustion hit like a hammer—especially after a full meal.
Under the coordination of Hoster Blackwood, the steward, and the scholar named Mozer, Karl's men were given clean spaces to sleep, dry clothes, and relative comfort.
They slept until the afternoon.
When everyone had awakened and the watch rotations were confirmed, Karl summoned the relevant personnel for a meeting.
This time, he also invited Hoster Blackwood and Mozer to attend.
As everyone gathered, Karl did not waste time.
He turned his head and looked at Kesi.
"First," he said calmly, "let's discuss our losses from last night."
The war was far from over.
And every decision from this moment on would ripple outward—just like the butterfly's wings.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)