He killed a man so easily—so naturally—that not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
To Karl, it was little more than an afterthought.
But the moment those cold words left his lips, Peros (Boros) Brune—who had just watched his sworn brother die before his very eyes—felt his heart plunge into a frozen abyss.
The arrogance he had proudly worn only moments ago vanished like smoke.
Clad in immaculate white armor with a velvet cloak draped across his shoulders and a golden lion brooch glinting over his chest, he looked every bit the imposing Kingsguard knight. Red gemstones gleamed like watchful eyes in the firelight. Yet beneath all that splendor, sweat poured down his back in thick, uncontrollable beads.
It soaked into the padding of his armor. It chilled him to the bone.
The terror running down Peros Brune's spine made his limbs tremble like a startled animal. He lifted a quivering hand, pointing at Karl—who stood before him gripping a blood-stained longsword, its crimson tip gleaming under the flames.
"You… you…" He stammered helplessly. "How did you get behind us?!"
Peros Brune had absolutely no idea how it happened.
He didn't understand how Karl had moved, how he had appeared behind them, how he had driven cold steel straight through Marlin Lant's exposed neck.
One moment, Peros was dodging the sudden shower of flying embers.
The next, Karl Stone had simply vanished.
Gone—like a ghost slipping through the cracks of night.
And then—before Peros could even turn—Marlin Lant was already lying at Karl's feet, eyes wide, blood spurting from his neck.
Dead.
Killed effortlessly—more easily than killing a chicken.
Killed quicker than taking a piss.
But while Peros saw nothing but chaos and smoke, the onlookers saw everything with perfect clarity.
They saw Karl pick up the iron brazier and hurl it.
They saw the burning coals scatter through the air, raining down on the two armored knights.
They saw both Kingsguard panic, desperately brushing the burning embers from their cloaks and armor.
And while the crowd gasped, Karl Stone stepped back—not rushing, not frantic—just two deliberate steps.
Then he bolted sideways, circling wide around the twin campfires.
Before anyone realized it, he had already come to stand behind the two Kingsguard.
Such a simple movement—yet executed with perfect timing.
Then came the finish.
Every knight knows the curse of steel armor: once your head is inside the helm, your world narrows to a sliver of vision before you. Everything outside that narrow strip becomes blind.
Karl didn't need to feint.
He didn't need to dance.
He simply stepped in, raised his longsword, and plunged it cleanly into the gap exposed at the side of Marlin Lant's turning neck.
Not a wasted motion.
Not a single flourish.
It was almost absurd.
As if Karl were performing a silent, deadly form of hide-and-seek. And the two Kingsguard were nothing but unwitting dance partners.
Had Marlin Lant not died with his eyes wide open in disbelief, the crowd might have thought he offered his neck willingly.
Shock rippled through the spectators. Their murmurs trembled in the night air, but none of it mattered to Karl.
Peros Brune demanded an explanation, but Karl had none to offer.
Words could not revive the dead.
And Karl was not the kind of man who spoke needlessly.
He wiped his blade on Marlin Lant's once-snow-white cloak, flicking away the last bead of blood, and began walking toward Peros Brune.
Slowly. Calmly.
Not rushing in for another kill.
Not lunging with animal ferocity.
Just walking.
But to Peros Brune, each step sounded like doom approaching.
In his eyes, Karl might as well have been a specter—appearing and vanishing at will.
Karl's blood-stained sword glowed ominously under the firelight. His shadow stretched long and twisted across the ground.
A demon.
A hunter.
A butcher.
Everything Peros Brune once believed about himself—his courage, his strength, his pride—crumbled like dry sand.
Plop.
He swallowed hard, hoping the motion would steady his shaking breath.
It didn't.
As Karl drew closer, his presence grew—like a mountain pressing down on Peros's chest. His heart hammered wildly. His breath came in short, panicked bursts.
His eyes darted between Marlin Lant's lifeless corpse and Queen Cersei, who sat behind Karl after having shifted her position earlier.
For a fleeting second, Peros locked eyes with the queen.
And in that instant, all remaining courage fled his body.
With a clatter, he dropped his sword.
Then—without warning—he fell to his knees, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
"I surrender! I surrender!" he cried, voice cracking. "Please—please don't kill me! Please!"
Not a blow exchanged.
Not a single attempt at resistance.
The Kingsguard—the elite of Westeros—begging for his life like a frightened child.
Karl blinked, momentarily stunned.
He had expected resistance. Perhaps a desperate swing. Anything.
But this?
This was pathetic.
And this was the same man who had confidently insulted him earlier.
Karl had planned to kill him swiftly and cleanly. But now…
Now he felt nothing but contempt.
Peros Brune, the supposedly noble Kingsguard, had long been known in King's Landing as a man who barked louder than he bit. Karl had seen him plenty of times swaggering about brothels on Silk Street, picking fights only to cower when punched back.
Still, Karl had not expected this level of cowardice.
Peros knelt before him, sobbing and begging, like a dog fearing the lash.
Karl sighed, shaking his head in disappointment.
With a cold, humorless smile, he shifted his gaze toward Queen Cersei.
According to the laws of trial by combat, there were only three ways to end it early:
One of the combatants dies or surrenders.
The accuser withdraws their accusation.
The defendant admits guilt.
Peros Brune had disgraced both his own honor and the queen's by kneeling and begging for mercy.
Karl didn't care. He had made his point.
One opponent lay dead.
The other had surrendered.
The trial was effectively over.
Now, only the queen's response mattered.
The crowd murmured in shock. No one expected such cowardice from a knight of the Kingsguard. His surrender was a slap across Cersei's face.
Karl bowed slightly toward her, his smile polite but dripping with mockery.
"Your Majesty," he said pleasantly, "one of your knights has fallen, and the other has chosen surrender."
The words were courteous.
The tone was venom.
Cersei's face twisted in fury.
The crowd held its breath. Hundreds of eyes waited for the queen's reaction.
But before she could speak—
Clang!
A sudden clash of steel rang out.
Karl didn't even bother looking back.
"Why?" he asked quietly. "Isn't living better?"
His blade flicked behind him with a lazy motion—just enough to divert the dagger thrust aimed for his waist.
He turned and met Peros Brune's face—twisted with desperation and rage, frozen in shock as Karl easily deflected his cowardly strike.
Karl didn't waste words.
His sword quivered, knocking the dagger from Peros's trembling grip.
Then—one swift strike—
Slice.
Half the man's hand flew off, spinning into the dirt.
Peros screamed, clutching his maimed wrist as blood gushed between his fingers.
Karl seized him by the neck of his armor, lifting him effortlessly as the crippled man thrashed like a trapped rabbit.
"Please! Please—I didn't mean it!" Peros sobbed. "I was wrong! I admit it! Spare me—I have money! I can pay—"
His voice dissolved into incoherent begging.
Karl dragged him—unceremoniously—across the dirt. The white cloak behind him gathered mud and filth, darkening with each scrape against the ground.
The crowd watched in stunned silence as Karl stopped before the king and queen.
He forced Peros into a kneeling position, standing behind him like an executioner.
"No," Karl murmured. "You're not sorry. You simply realized you're going to die."
He turned Peros's head, exposing the vulnerable gap at the collarbone beneath his armor.
"Sir Peros Brune," Karl said softly, his voice cold as winter steel, "do not disgrace the white cloak on your back. It is the highest honor a knight can receive."
Peros's face twisted in terror. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Tears streamed down his cheeks. A foul stench spread as fear emptied his bowels.
Karl's sword pressed against his ear, the tip poised over the gap at his collarbone.
The crowd stood frozen.
Karl pushed.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The blade slid in—inch by inch—until the entire length disappeared into the knight's body.
Peros Brune twitched once.
Then he fell still.
And silence swallowed the world.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)