Skulls for the Skull Seat, Blood Sacrifice for the Blood God
The air beneath the Dragon Gate archway hardened like cooling mortar.
Silence fell—not peaceful silence, but the heavy, suffocating kind that precedes slaughter.
On one side stood Karl Stone and the wildlings who had followed him into the city. Their weapons were bloodstained, their armor mismatched and battered. Fear flickered in many of their eyes—but fear did not weaken them. It sharpened them. Beneath it, anger surged like wildfire.
On the other side, filling the streets beyond the archway and stretching as far as the eye could see, stood the Lannister host.
Ranks upon ranks of disciplined infantry. Spears upright. Shields locked. Crimson and gold banners fluttering above their heads.
Two forces stared at one another across a field of corpses.
Between them lay what remained of Ser Gregor Clegane's detachment.
The Mountain had entered the Dragon Gate with nearly three hundred men.
Now they were nothing but a slaughtered offering.
A few Lannister soldiers still stood—those who had survived the chaos when Karl and his warriors carved through them, and when friendly blades, in confusion and terror, struck their own. These survivors staggered in place, swords raised, eyes vacant.
Their minds had not yet caught up with reality.
Blood covered their vision. Screams still echoed in their ears. Madness clung to them like smoke.
They turned in circles, weapons lifted, as though enemies lurked everywhere.
From the Lannister lines outside, a mounted knight commander observed them with cold indifference. He did not shout. He did not rage.
He simply raised his hand.
"Take them."
At once, disciplined squads peeled from the formation. Shields forward, movements precise. They surrounded the dazed survivors.
A few of the broken men lashed out instinctively, mistaking friend for foe. They were swiftly knocked down—shield bashes, pommels to the skull, fists to the jaw. Those who regained clarity were dragged to their feet and escorted to the rear.
Those who did not were carried like sacks of grain.
The clearing of the battlefield was efficient. Emotionless.
Karl watched it all from the front of his line.
His greatsword—Pale Justice—rested point-down before him. Blood ran along the fuller and dripped from the edge. The smell of iron hung thick in the air.
Before him lay limbs, shattered shields, crushed helms, and steaming entrails. Wounded men wailed weakly. Others lay still, staring blankly at the sky.
No one tended them.
Not the Lannisters.
Not Karl.
There was no time for mercy.
This was not the end. It was only an interlude.
The dead of both sides had become the price of entry.
Karl knew he could not retrieve the fallen tribal warriors who had died for him. Their bodies would remain here.
And worse still—another battle was about to begin.
The Lannister commander lowered his hand.
A crimson banner dipped.
The army moved.
A unified roar erupted from thousands of throats, followed by the chilling hiss of steel.
Spears lowered in perfect alignment.
Behind them, shields locked together with overlapping precision. The infantry square tightened, boots striking the earth in rhythm.
"Rumble."
"Rumble."
It was not fast.
It was not hurried.
But it was relentless.
Death advanced step by step.
Karl glanced back at the wildlings behind him.
Their armor was scavenged and uneven—patched mail, stolen helms, boiled leather. They looked nothing like the polished soldiers before them.
Yet none stepped back.
Fear existed—but retreat did not.
Their eyes followed Karl.
He had conquered them. Broken them. Earned them.
"We win this battle," Karl said simply. His voice was steady. "And I stand in front."
He did not give speeches. He did not promise glory.
He promised presence.
The tribal warriors answered by raising their blood-soaked weapons and howling like wolves.
Their morale burned bright.
Karl's lips curved faintly beneath the blood that masked his face.
Then he turned to his squire.
Jon Snow.
The youngest among them.
Still a boy by law.
"Jon," Karl called.
"Yes, my lord."
"Ride out. Tell Shagga and the clans outside the walls that I will hold the Dragon Gate. They must seize the outer gate and lift the iron portcullis."
Jon hesitated only a heartbeat.
Then he shook his head.
"No."
Karl's brow lifted slightly.
"I am not a deserter," Jon said firmly.
He raised Pale Justice—its blade chipped from battle—toward Karl.
"Besides… I lost your king's helm in the fighting outside. It is my duty to retrieve it."
His breathing was heavy, but his voice did not waver.
Laughter rippled through the archway.
Hall clapped Jon on the shoulder.
"Good lad. After this war, I'll drag you through every brothel in King's Landing and see if you still boast so boldly."
Even in this moment, tension eased.
Karl studied Jon's empty arms, then chuckled softly.
"Your father would be proud," he said quietly.
"Stay close to me. I'll need a shoulder to lean my sword on."
Jon's back straightened further.
He felt, for the first time, like a man.
Outside, the Lannister formation drew closer.
Karl raised his right hand sharply, silencing all laughter.
He lifted Pale Justice high overhead.
"Send the order to the rear!" he roared. "And now—send these bastards to hell!"
His voice thundered through the Dragon Gate.
At his waist, wrapped in yellowed cloth, the severed head of the Mountain swung heavily with the motion.
Karl stepped forward.
The ground beneath his boots was slick with blood.
He did not slow.
Before he reached the spear line, he swung.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
The long spear shafts shattered on contact with his blade, splintering like dry branches.
Shock rippled through the Lannister ranks.
Karl accelerated.
With a powerful push of his legs, he leapt—soaring nearly eight feet into the air.
For a moment, he eclipsed the sun.
Then he spun.
Midair, his massive blade carved a full circle, glinting faintly with an almost imperceptible aura.
Gravity claimed him.
He descended like judgment.
His knee crushed a shield.
His greatsword followed—splitting helm and skull alike.
Three soldiers standing behind the first were cleaved straight down the center.
Armor buckled like tin.
Helmets crumpled.
Bodies split apart as though struck by a falling boulder.
Karl landed atop broken steel.
He did not pause.
He rose instantly.
His gilded longsword flashed free in his off-hand.
Then he spun.
Not blindly.
Deliberately.
Both blades became extensions of his will.
Steel howled.
Helmets flew.
Heads separated cleanly from shoulders.
Blood sprayed in red arcs.
Karl became a storm within the Lannister formation.
Not the cruel butchery of Gregor Clegane.
No lingering.
No torture.
Efficient.
Necks.
Throats.
Helms split in two.
Each swing ended a life cleanly, brutally, finally.
The once-impenetrable spear wall fractured.
The shield line wavered.
Under his assault, disciplined ranks dissolved into panic.
Behind him, wildlings surged forward, roaring, hacking into the breach he had created.
The hurricane widened.
Blood fell like rain.
Severed heads tumbled through the air, striking the cobblestones with hollow thuds.
Men screamed.
Men fled.
Men died.
Karl did not slow.
Blades rose and fell.
The Dragon Gate became an altar.
And beneath the burning sun, the Lannister army discovered that even walls of steel could break.
Blood fed the stones.
Skulls paved the ground.
And through it all, Karl Stone advanced—
a living tempest of iron and death.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)