At the forefront of the charge stood Karl Stone.
When he moved, it was as if a hurricane had taken human form.
The moment he roared, the Mountain Clans warriors behind him surged forward, eager to meet the enemy. Yet before they could even clash with the Lannister line, they witnessed something that stopped them mid-stride.
Their leader—no, their storm—had already broken through.
Karl crashed into the Lannister formation like a living battering ram. His greatsword carved through shields, armor, and flesh alike. The spear wall that had appeared solid and disciplined a moment earlier shattered as though it were brittle wood.
Blood erupted into the air. Limbs were severed. Men screamed.
Iron offered no protection. Numbers offered no comfort.
The Lannister formation, once proud and orderly, became nothing more than a cruel joke—like the slurred boasts of a drunken man in a tavern.
But this was no illusion.
Everyone watching knew it.
Karl Stone was simply too powerful.
His strength defied reason, almost beyond mortal comprehension.
Like a god descending in wrath.
Yet the Mountain Clans warriors felt no fear at the sight.
They had lived their lives among harsh peaks and unforgiving winds. They knew no discipline in the southern sense, no courtly manners, no polished civility. They followed the traditions of the First Men—raw, ancient, unyielding.
To them, bloodshed was not horror.
It was proof.
Karl's violence did not repel them. It electrified them.
Everything he embodied aligned with their beliefs. Strength alone commanded loyalty. Strength alone determined worth.
So when they saw him cleaving through armored knights like a dragon among sheep, they did not hesitate.
They roared in exultation.
Weapons rose.
And they plunged into the feast of blood and steel.
The battlefield beneath the Dragon Gate became a symphony of slaughter.
Iron rang against iron. Sparks burst with every clash of steel. Spears punched into flesh with dull, sickening thuds. Bones snapped. Blood splattered across stone.
The dying wailed. The wounded screamed.
All of it merged into a terrible rhythm—an anthem of death.
The Lannisters fell in waves.
Bodies toppled like grass before a storm, piling one upon another. Crimson soaked the ground, turning earth into slick mud. The red and gold of Lannister armor became indistinguishable from the blood that flowed from within it.
It seemed as though even the air had turned red.
Above, on the city wall, Ser Kevan Lannister watched.
Round-shouldered and thick-waisted, his once-rosy complexion drained of color as he witnessed the collapse of his army. His golden beard trembled faintly as he gripped the parapet.
Beside him stood his guard and a line of Lannister archers, all staring in disbelief.
Below them, Karl Stone carved a path through their men.
The eye of the storm.
The swordstorm he unleashed did not slow until every spear formation in front of him had been pierced and broken.
Only then did he pause.
He allowed the Mountain Clans warriors to catch up, to flood through the breach he had torn open.
The Dragon Gate was narrow—only so many could enter at once. But the black tide pouring in was relentless.
Against thousands of red-cloaked soldiers, they seemed insignificant at first glance.
Yet they were not drops in a sea.
They were rock.
And that rock was growing.
Inside the Dragon Gate, the black mass expanded steadily, crushing the red sea from within. Karl stood at its sharpest edge—the spearpoint that had punctured the shield.
Kevan Lannister felt his heart sink.
The slaughter had not ended.
It had only begun.
The renewed fighting lasted mere minutes.
Once the foremost ranks broke, the collapse spread like fire along dry grass.
A battle of few against many—yet utterly one-sided.
The Mountain Clans advanced like black reefs rising against crimson waves. No matter how the Lannisters crashed against them, they did not yield.
Fear began to spread.
At first it was subtle—a hesitation, a backward glance.
Then came the cries.
"No! Don't!"
"I don't want to die!"
"I want my mother—!"
"Seven save me!"
"He's a devil!"
"He's the Stranger himself!"
The Lannister line faltered.
Faith, pride, discipline—none of it mattered when faced with a man who seemed untouchable.
Karl's blade rose and fell in steady rhythm.
Every stroke ended a life.
Fear transformed into panic.
Panic became retreat.
And retreat became rout.
But the Dragon Gate lay in a terrible location.
Nestled near Rhaenys's Hill, with narrow streets and tightly packed buildings restricting movement, the area quickly became choked with bodies and men.
Those in the front tried to flee but found no room.
Those in the rear, unaware of the disaster, continued pushing forward.
Chaos multiplied.
Men were crushed. Trampled. Slain where they stood.
The ruined Dragonpit atop Rhaenys's Hill loomed silently in the distance, as if observing the carnage without judgment.
Inside the gate, the Mountain Clans grew in number.
The battle was no longer a contest.
It was an execution.
Karl fought atop a rising mound of corpses, his arms numb from repeated swings. Blood coated him from head to toe. His vision blurred red.
He had long since stopped counting.
A few hundred at least.
Perhaps more.
At last, something changed.
The pressure before him vanished.
The tightly packed wall of enemies parted, leaving a strange, hollow gap.
Karl blinked.
The fear that had begun at the center had finally reached the edges.
The outer ranks of the Lannister army understood.
They saw the mountain of their own dead.
They saw the blood-drenched giant standing upon it.
And they broke.
Officers tried to restore order, even cutting down their own men to force obedience.
It was useless.
The terror had reached them too.
They fled.
With a final sweeping stroke, Karl severed two heads at once.
The bodies fell.
He stood still, chest heaving, watching the red tide recede.
Helmets and shields lay abandoned. Banners trampled. Corpses scattered across stone.
The Lannister army had collapsed.
Behind him came a thunderous cheer.
The heavy iron gate groaned as it was raised from within. The grinding of chains echoed through the air.
The Mountain Clans surged forward into King's Landing.
Victory howls filled the streets.
Karl turned his gaze upward.
On the wall, archers were engaged in desperate hand-to-hand fighting. Among them, he spotted a bald man in fine armor being hurried away toward the Red Keep.
Kevan Lannister.
"Don't let him escape!" Karl roared. "I want him alive!"
A spark of fury reignited within him.
He threw aside his cumbersome greatsword, gripping his gilded longsword instead, and prepared to pursue.
"Lord Karl!"
He stopped.
Shagga. Timett. Qira. Hall. Bronn.
They stood nearby, strangely hesitant.
Fear lingered in their eyes—save for Qira's, which shone with something closer to awe.
Karl glanced between Kevan's retreating figure and the battlefield.
The fight had shifted to pursuit.
He made his decision quickly.
"Take captives," he ordered. "Surrendered men are not to be killed. They count as spoils."
Killing them one by one would waste time.
"Capture their officers. Break the head, and the body follows."
Then his expression hardened.
"No looting. Not a single civilian touched."
His voice dropped lower.
"What I promised you will be given. But this is my order—and my bottom line."
The killing intent in his words made even hardened warriors swallow.
"Yes, Lord," Timett answered firmly. "I will ensure it."
"If anyone disobeys," Timett added coldly, "I will skin him myself."
The others nodded quickly.
Karl gave no further instructions.
There was only one task left.
Kevan could not escape.
As the others dispersed to carry out his will, Hall approached with a familiar figure.
Jon Snow.
The boy was bloodied and exhausted but unbroken. He carried Karl's antlered greathelm in his arms.
"My lord," Jon said quietly. "I found it."
Karl glanced at the filthy helm and smiled faintly.
"Keep it," he replied. "Until I knight you."
He patted Jon's shoulder, then strode away.
Blood-soaked footprints marked his path.
Bronn exhaled slowly as he watched him go.
"Seven hells," the sellsword muttered. "Did you see that?"
"He cut through them like a storm."
"A bloody wind."
The others remained silent.
Because they had seen it too.
Karl Stone had not merely broken the Lannister line.
He had become the Blood Wind.
And it had swept King's Landing clean.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)