As the members of House Crakehall openly discussed how to bring him down—right in front of him, no less—Karl El showed no sign of concern.
On the contrary, he watched them with a faint smile, almost as if he were pleased by their enthusiasm.
Originally, Karl had no intention of slaughtering the Crakehall family.
His plan had been simple: subdue the ringleaders, throw them into the dungeons, and bring the castle under his control.
After all, indiscriminate killing served no purpose.
A ruler who gained a reputation for butchery would only create more enemies in the future. Besides, it was impossible to kill everyone present. His goal had always been to establish authority, deter those with hidden ambitions, and secure control of the castle.
Bloodshed was merely a tool.
Not the objective.
Unfortunately, the Crakehalls seemed determined to choose the worst possible path.
If they were so eager to deliver their heads to him, refusing every opportunity to surrender, then Karl saw no reason to refuse the gift.
After all, heads earned rewards.
And rewards earned gold.
What Heaven bestowed should not be rejected.
Watching Tybolt Crakehall rally the defenders, Karl slowly wrapped his hand around the hilt of his enormous greatsword.
The blade had been driven into the floorboards earlier, standing upright like a monument.
With one effortless motion, he pulled it free.
Steel groaned.
The sword emerged.
Then Karl moved.
A man charged him first, mouth open in a furious roar, revealing crooked and rotten teeth.
Karl swung the greatsword casually.
The massive blade smashed into the man's skull with terrifying force.
The impact drove the head directly into the man's chest cavity.
Blood exploded outward.
The corpse collapsed at Karl's feet, still clutching its sword.
The body slid several feet across the floor before coming to a stop.
It looked almost absurd.
Like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut.
Karl didn't spare it a second glance.
More enemies were already rushing toward him.
The great hall had been packed with members of House Crakehall. Apart from Karl and the two Kingsguard accompanying him, everyone present belonged to the enemy.
There was no shortage of targets.
Karl raised the sword again.
The weapon was larger than Ice, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark.
Yet in his hands it moved with impossible speed.
Like a willow branch dancing in the wind.
The blade flashed.
Three men froze in place.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then their bodies separated at the waist.
The upper halves slid from the lower halves.
Screams erupted throughout the hall.
Karl flicked the blood from the blade.
"Good."
His smile widened slightly.
"Tob Mott truly outdid himself."
The sword felt perfect.
Its tremendous reach and weight transformed every swing into a killing blow.
In Karl's hands, it was less a weapon and more a force of nature.
Four men had died in seconds.
The crowd's courage immediately wavered.
The hall grew noticeably quieter.
For the first time, they realized that the giant sword in Karl's hands wasn't merely decorative.
It was death itself.
Karl seized the opportunity.
His voice thundered across the hall.
"Surrender."
"Or die."
For a brief moment, silence reigned.
Then someone shouted a curse.
The tension shattered.
Instead of fear, rage spread through the crowd.
A burly man carrying a shield pushed his way forward.
"Bastard!"
"Son of a whore!"
He grabbed a bronze wine pot and hurled it at Karl's head.
Karl tilted his head slightly.
The pot sailed harmlessly past.
Seeing this, the burly man grinned savagely.
"He's only one man!"
"We can kill him!"
The crowd roared.
The man raised his shield and charged.
Karl's expression darkened.
The ceramic plate thrown moments later shattered against his blade.
Porcelain fragments scattered everywhere.
Then Karl stepped forward.
The floor cracked beneath his feet.
He launched himself into the air.
The greatsword rose overhead.
The charging man lifted his shield.
Too late.
The sword descended.
A wet sound echoed through the hall.
The shield split cleanly in half.
The man behind it split as well.
Wood.
Steel.
Bone.
Flesh.
Everything parted before the blade.
Blood sprayed across the room.
The two halves of the man slid apart, collapsing onto the floor.
Entrails and blood smeared across the stone.
Silence followed.
Absolute silence.
The hall resembled a scene from the Seven Hells.
Even the most hot-blooded among the Crakehalls felt their courage evaporate.
But Karl no longer intended to offer mercy.
Not after their answer.
Not after the insults.
Not after the attack.
He tightened his grip on the sword.
Then charged.
The Bloody Storm had once swept across the Riverlands and King's Landing.
Now it descended upon Crakehall.
Screams filled the hall.
Men begged for mercy.
Others cursed.
Many simply ran.
Limbs flew through the air.
Bodies crashed into walls.
Blood painted the stone floors crimson.
From the moment Karl had killed the first four men to the moment he launched his counterattack, less than thirty seconds had passed.
Yet in those thirty seconds, the banquet hall had transformed into a slaughterhouse.
Ser Arys Oakheart watched in stunned disbelief.
Even after witnessing Karl's monstrous strength before, he found the scene difficult to comprehend.
But there was no time for amazement.
The king was under attack.
That was all that mattered.
His grip tightened around Earl Roland Crakehall's neck.
The lord's face had already turned pale with terror.
He saw the decision in the Kingsguard's eyes.
His mouth opened.
Perhaps to beg.
Perhaps to negotiate.
No words emerged.
Steel flashed.
Arys's sword sliced across his throat.
Blood erupted from the wound.
Roland's body collapsed.
Before it even hit the floor, Arys kicked the corpse forward.
An approaching knight stumbled as the body struck him.
That moment of hesitation proved fatal.
Arys's sword swept horizontally.
The knight's head flew from his shoulders.
The body crumpled.
Arys didn't stop.
"Protect the King!"
Marlin Warwick immediately turned toward him.
Shield raised.
Sword ready.
Then disaster struck.
An arrow pierced the back of Marlin's head.
The iron tip burst through his eye socket.
His body staggered forward.
Two more steps.
Then he collapsed.
Dead before he hit the floor.
Arys froze.
Behind the fallen knight stood the attacker.
Gars Flowers.
The bastard archer calmly lowered his bow.
Without hesitation, he reached for another arrow.
Arys rolled aside instinctively.
The arrow struck where he had been standing moments earlier.
Sparks erupted from the stone floor.
Gars clicked his tongue in annoyance.
Then he ignored Arys completely.
Instead, he drew another arrow.
His true target stood elsewhere.
Karl El.
The archer released the bowstring.
The arrow flew.
At that exact moment, Karl had just impaled two men with a single thrust and pinned them against a wall.
Suddenly, every instinct in his body screamed danger.
The hairs on his neck stood upright.
Without conscious thought, he shifted sideways.
The arrow flashed past.
A fraction of an inch from his throat.
Instead, it buried itself in the neck of one of the dying men pinned behind him.
Karl slowly turned.
His eyes narrowed.
The hall seemed to grow colder.
Across the room, Gars Flowers felt a chill run down his spine.
For the first time, fear touched his heart.
The man looked at him.
Not like a human.
Like a predator.
Gars hurriedly reached for another arrow.
Too slow.
Karl ripped the greatsword free from the wall.
Then threw it.
The massive blade crossed the hall like a siege bolt.
A deafening whistle filled the air.
Gars looked up.
A blur of steel filled his vision.
The sword punched through his chest.
The force carried him backward.
The impact slammed him into the wall.
Blood burst from his mouth.
He looked down.
The enormous blade had pinned him to the stone like an insect.
His heart was gone.
His strength vanished.
The bow slipped from his fingers.
A moment later, so did his life.
Across the hall, Tybolt Crakehall stared in horror.
Bodies littered the floor.
Blood covered the walls.
The stench of death filled the air.
And at the center of it all stood Karl El.
Unharmed.
Unstoppable.
Tybolt finally understood.
This wasn't a man.
This was a monster wearing a man's face.
A force that could not be defeated.
Unfortunately, realization had come too late.
Karl turned toward him.
Smiling.
Tybolt's entire body trembled.
Cold sweat soaked his clothes.
The sword fell from his fingers.
Karl approached slowly.
One hand settled upon Tybolt's neck.
The other casually removed the weapon from his grasp.
"Kreher... Crakehall..."
Karl spoke thoughtfully.
"I remember your sigil."
"A boar, isn't it?"
He chuckled.
"My father died because of a boar."
Tybolt swallowed hard.
Karl's fingers gently stroked his throat.
The gesture was almost friendly.
That somehow made it worse.
Then Karl asked softly,
"I've forgotten your house words."
"What are they?"
Tybolt's lips trembled.
"V-Valiant and Peerless."
Karl nodded.
"A fine motto."
His smile widened.
"But courage without wisdom is merely another form of stupidity."
His grip tightened.
Tybolt felt his breath stop.
"To be a hunter, you need courage."
"You need strength."
"And you need wisdom."
"If you lack all three..."
Karl leaned closer.
"Then don't hunt."
The pressure increased.
Bones began to creak.
"I hope this lesson proves useful."
His smile never faded.
"In your next life."
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)