The flat-topped greathelm stood upright in the dirt, its stone fist crest still pointing defiantly toward the sky.
But its owner no longer stood beneath it.
The massive body of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, lay sprawled across the blood-soaked ground—headless.
Given his monstrous size, the blood pouring from his severed neck flowed in grotesque abundance. It gushed in thick, dark streams, soaking into the hardened earth, turning dust to mud. The metallic scent filled the air, heavy and suffocating.
In Karl's right hand, he held a gilded longsword—the very blade that had once belonged to the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister.
Impaled upon its tip was the head of a giant.
Gregor's severed neck had been pierced clean through by the sword. His enormous head hung grotesquely skewered, face frozen in disbelief. Through the narrow slits of the fallen greathelm nearby, Karl could see that the Mountain's eyes remained open.
They were empty.
And yet, within those lifeless pupils lingered unmistakable unwillingness.
"I thought it would take more effort," Karl muttered.
There was no arrogance in his tone—only faint surprise.
With a firm motion, Karl withdrew the blade from the neck stump and lifted the severed head free. Blood streamed down the bright white steel, filling the fuller and dripping from the golden crossguard. The once-polished sword was now entirely red, baptized in the blood of a sadist, murderer, and rapist.
He glanced down at the body.
Beside the Mountain's corpse lay another man—crushed beyond recognition.
At the last desperate moment, that warrior had seized Gregor's ankle and thrown off his balance. The stumble had been slight, almost comical—but it had been enough.
The Mountain had fallen.
And that fall had sealed his fate.
The tribal warrior from the High Mountain Clans—whose name Karl had never learned—had been crushed under the enormous weight. His ribs had collapsed; his chest cavity flattened. Death must have been instant.
Yet on his ruined face lingered something remarkable.
Satisfaction.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Only the quiet triumph of vengeance fulfilled.
Karl stood in silence, holding Gregor's head in one hand. For a brief moment, the battlefield noise faded from his mind.
That man had followed him from the Bright Moon Mountains to King's Landing—a city that had meant nothing to him. He had died here for a cause not originally his own.
A soft sigh escaped from within Karl's antlered helm.
Then, with efficient movements, he swept up the Mountain's yellow surcoat bearing the Clegane sigil. He wrapped the severed head tightly within it and tied the grisly bundle to his waist.
A trophy.
A message.
Only then did he turn toward the Lannister soldiers.
Silence had fallen across the battlefield.
Fighting had ceased almost instinctively when the Mountain fell. Now the men stared at Karl Stone as if gazing upon something divine—or demonic.
Their eyes shifted downward.
To his waist.
To the bulging, blood-soaked bundle wrapped in yellow cloth.
The crimson stain spread steadily, darkening the fabric.
Terror took root.
"Surrender and live."
Karl's voice, muffled through the antlered helm, carried across the blood-drenched courtyard.
Outside the city walls, distant screams and clashing steel continued. But here, beneath the Dragon Gate, time seemed suspended.
For two heartbeats, no one moved.
Then—
Clang.
A sword hit the ground.
"I surrender! I want—ah!"
One Lannister soldier dropped his weapon and raised both hands, panic overtaking pride. But before he could finish speaking, a spear thrust from behind pierced clean through his exposed neck.
The words died in his throat.
Blood bubbled as he collapsed.
"Any man who surrenders dies without mercy!"
The attacker—a Lannister captain by his armor—kicked the dying man aside and raised his bloodstained spear.
His voice trembled—not from weakness, but from desperation.
"They've lost their honor! Fight!"
He charged forward again, attacking the tribal warriors who had paused at Karl's command.
The fragile peace shattered instantly.
Enraged, the High Mountain clansmen resumed their assault. Steel met steel once more.
Karl's brow furrowed inside the helm.
So be it.
These were not common levies. These were men handpicked by Tywin Lannister to hold King's Landing hostage. Loyalists. Their fate was tied to House Lannister's survival.
For them, surrender meant annihilation.
There was no third path.
When the Lannister captain was finally dragged down and his throat slit by Bronn from behind, Karl understood completely.
This would end only one way.
He removed his antlered helm and looked upward.
On the city wall stood Kevan Lannister.
Calm.
Calculating.
Their gazes met.
Karl slowly drew a finger across his own throat in silent promise.
Kevan responded with a casual wave.
Lannister soldiers appeared between the parapets—bows drawn.
"My lord," one knight protested, "our men are still below!"
Kevan's expression did not change.
"Are you speaking of those cowards seeking surrender?" he asked coldly. "They abandoned their honor. I merely reclaim it."
The knight swallowed.
"Or would you prefer Karl Stone to breach the city?" Kevan continued.
Understanding dawned.
The knight raised the signal flag.
"Shoot!" he roared hoarsely. "Kill them all!"
The sky darkened.
Arrows fell like iron rain.
Karl slashed several aside, his enhanced reflexes saving him. But the men below—still locked in combat—were unprepared.
Screams erupted.
Men scattered.
"Take cover!" Karl shouted. "Push into the city! Don't get trapped at the gate!"
Chaos ruled.
There was no time for formation.
No time for strategy.
Only survival.
Karl hurled his antlered helm to Jon Snow and surged forward. Without it, his vision cleared.
Ahead lay a staircase leading up to the walls—but enemies blocked the path.
Two swift strikes—two heads fell.
He rolled forward and seized the Mountain's massive two-handed greatsword.
Even under normal circumstances, Karl could wield it.
Now, empowered by the strength potion coursing through his veins, it felt almost light.
Switching Jaime's gilded sword to his left hand, he gripped the greatsword in his right.
With a sweeping horizontal cut, three Lannister soldiers were decapitated instantly.
Blood had not yet begun to spray when Karl shouldered their headless bodies aside and charged.
If arrows were the threat, he would remove the archers.
But as he advanced, horns blared.
From beyond the gate, heavy synchronized footsteps echoed through the streets.
Karl halted.
The Dragon Gate stood near Rhaenys's Hill, splitting the city roads into left and right passages.
Now, from both directions, disciplined troops advanced.
Thousands.
He had not broken into the city.
He had walked into a trap.
Kevan Lannister had anticipated this breach.
What Karl had believed to be victory was merely the first layer of a contingency plan.
He glanced left.
Right.
More Lannister soldiers poured forward in tight formations, shields locked.
Above, arrows continued to fall.
Below, enemies closed in.
For the first time since slaying the Mountain, Karl frowned.
This was no longer a chaotic skirmish.
It was an execution ground.
And he had led his men straight into it.
The desperate Lannisters were willing to kill their own to hold this line.
Either they would succeed—
Or they would burn with the city.
There was no middle ground.
Karl tightened his grip on both swords.
If Kevan wanted desperation—
He would answer it with fury.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)