Bronn and his band of sellswords forced their way into the mass of men pressing toward the Dragon Gate. They neither led the charge nor lagged behind. Survival, Bronn knew, often meant standing precisely where death was least likely to land.
The night before, while resting and resupplying at Rosby, they had prepared carefully. Each man had reinforced his shield—thick oak strengthened with riveted iron plates. Now those shields were raised overhead, forming a crude canopy against the rain of arrows falling from the battlements.
Iron hissed through the air like a storm of angry hornets.
Yet Bronn's attention was not on the arrows.
His gaze was fixed ahead—on the gate.
"Seven gods… tell me I'm not dreaming."
He tightened his grip on the leather straps of his shield with one hand and clutched his iron sword with the other.
Karl Stone stood before the Dragon Gate alone.
One man.
One hammer.
With a single, earth-shaking swing, the warhammer smashed into the iron-bound doors. Wood splintered. Hinges screamed. The reinforced pillars buckled.
Another swing followed.
The gate collapsed inward.
Karl stepped through the broken threshold as if entering a tavern.
Bronn stared, speechless.
Beside him, Chegen gaped openly. "That's no man. That's a warrior sent down from the heavens. If I were one of those temple priests, I'd kneel before him instead of those overpriced statues."
Bronn almost nodded in agreement.
An arrow sliced past his cheek.
He ducked instinctively, pressing lower behind his shield.
"Bloody hell!" he snapped. "Which bastard is shooting that straight?"
Chegen barked a laugh.
Bronn's heart was still racing. Death had brushed close enough to feel.
"Keep your head down," Bronn muttered. "You can worship him later."
Yet even as he said it, his eyes drifted back toward the gate.
Karl Stone had already begun killing.
Inside the shattered entrance, Karl dragged the warhammer behind him. The iron head scraped across stone, leaving a pale streak against the ground.
A moment later, blood flowed across it.
"First," Karl said calmly, his voice carrying through the narrow passage, "I do not accept surrender."
The antlered helm he wore cast shadows over his face, but his eyes shone through the gaps—cold and merciless.
The Lannister soldiers standing before him hesitated.
That was their mistake.
The hammer rose.
It fell with a sound like thunder striking earth.
The man it struck ceased to be a man. Armor caved inward. Bone shattered. Flesh burst apart in a spray of red and iron.
Silence followed.
Then panic.
"Demon!"
"Monster!"
"Run!"
The soldiers had prepared to defend a gate.
They had not prepared to face this.
Karl advanced.
The narrow passage of the Dragon Gate became a slaughterhouse.
Men in red and gold stumbled over one another in terror. Spears clattered from shaking hands. The press of bodies worked against them; those at the rear did not yet understand what horror awaited at the front.
Karl did not chase.
He did not need to.
He kicked an abandoned sword from the ground and caught it midair.
Hammer in one hand.
Sword in the other.
He stepped forward into the mass of men.
Steel flashed.
Blood sprayed in arcs.
The hammer crushed shields and shattered ribcages. The sword sliced through gaps in armor, carving open throats and bellies alike.
The confined passage amplified the chaos. Fallen bodies became obstacles. Soldiers tripped, dragged down by their own comrades. Screams echoed off stone walls.
Karl thrust the blade through two men at once, lifting them as if they weighed nothing. With a twist of his arm, he hurled them upward. Their armored forms struck the stone archway above before crashing back down into the writhing mass below.
The slaughter fed upon itself.
Within moments, the defensive line collapsed entirely.
Behind Karl, the wildlings and mercenaries surged through the ruined gate.
"Lord Karl!"
"Kill them!"
"Everything they own is ours!"
The sellswords poured into the passage like floodwater breaking through a dam.
They found Lannister soldiers already broken—some wounded, some frozen, some scrambling desperately to escape.
Bronn entered with a grin.
He moved swiftly, cutting a man's throat in one smooth motion, then spinning to bury his dagger in another's neck. Efficient. Precise.
He made sure Karl could see him.
"My lord!" Bronn called. "You lead—we'll guard your back!"
Karl paused briefly, surveying the carnage.
His men had taken the gate.
The Lannister defense had dissolved into scattered resistance.
He no longer needed to carve a path.
He lifted the hammer and shook it once. Blood and fragments slid from its surface.
"Clever mercenary," Karl said, voice calm beneath the helm. "See that you survive long enough to collect your gold."
Bronn's grin widened.
Jon Snow pushed through the chaos moments later, followed by Hall, Timett, and Qira.
"Lord!"
"Boss!"
"King!"
The titles overlapped.
Karl's gaze lingered briefly on Qira at the word king—but he said nothing to correct her.
Instead, he looked toward the city beyond.
King's Landing lay open.
"Establish control of the gate," Karl ordered. "Secure the passage. Advance steadily toward the Red Keep."
He pointed toward the distant silhouette of the crimson fortress rising above the city.
"Spread chaos among the Lannister ranks. Strike fast. Don't let them regroup."
He did not issue complex formations or intricate commands.
The wildlings did not require such things.
They required direction—and blood.
"I'll be at the Red Keep," Karl said simply.
He stepped forward, leaving the gate behind.
Jon and Hall followed.
Bronn hesitated only a heartbeat before rushing forward again. This time, he dropped to one knee in Karl's path.
"My lord. Grant me the honor of serving you."
Karl pulled a gilded longsword from where it had embedded itself in stone during the fighting. Unlike the borrowed blades around him, this one bore no nicks.
"You would swear to me?" Karl asked.
Bronn did not hesitate. "Gladly."
He had studied Karl for weeks. Refused Stark's summons. Waited deliberately for this moment.
He had chosen his side carefully.
Karl regarded him for a brief second.
"Very well," he said. "Prove your loyalty."
That was enough.
Bronn rose at once.
They passed fully through the Dragon Gate and into King's Landing proper.
Smoke drifted between buildings. Civilians fled in every direction. Bells rang distantly.
Karl lifted his eyes toward Rhaenys's Hill.
There, the massive, ruined Dragonpit loomed against the sky.
Then movement caught his attention.
Ahead, carving through Karl's own advancing warriors, was a towering figure wielding a massive greatsword.
Each swing split men apart.
Each step crushed bodies underfoot.
The man was enormous—broad as an ox, clad in heavy armor stained dark with blood.
Even from a distance, his presence radiated violence.
Jon stopped beside Karl.
"That must be him."
Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain.
Karl rolled his shoulders once and shifted the gilded blade in his grip.
"Clear the streets behind me," he ordered without looking back. "Give us space."
The Mountain continued forward, greatsword rising and falling, scattering wildlings with brutal force.
The two giants of the battlefield now faced one another across a stretch of blood-soaked cobblestone.
The air between them seemed to tighten.
Around them, men hesitated.
Even amid chaos, instinct recognized something rare—
Two forces about to collide.
Karl stepped forward first.
The Mountain answered with a roar.
And the streets of King's Landing braced for impact.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)