When Karl barked his impatient command, Lord Varys had no choice but to retreat with careful grace, bowing his head and stepping aside.
The brief exchange did not go unnoticed.
Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger—glanced sideways at Grand Maester Pycelle, whose thin frame trembled as though a winter wind had found its way into the Throne Room. The two men exchanged a look—one sharp and calculating, the other anxious and uncertain.
Karl, however, paid them no further attention.
His gaze shifted deliberately and settled upon the man clad in full plate armor—short, thick, and absurdly disproportionate beneath the heavy steel.
"Amory Lorch," Karl said flatly.
He had recognized him instantly.
Even encased in refined Lannister-forged plate, the man resembled nothing so much as a butchered tree stump wrapped in metal. His face was pale and bloated, with small, piggish eyes that darted nervously beneath a sweaty brow.
Varys had once compared him to a pig.
Karl thought that comparison unfair.
A pig, at least, possessed a certain rustic honesty.
"Y-Yes… it is I, Ser Karl," Amory stammered, his voice already trembling. "Is there… something I may assist you with?"
Six Lannister corpses lay cooling across the polished floor of the Throne Room. Blood darkened the cracks between the stones.
Amory's gaze flicked to them—and then back to Karl.
The young giant stood only slightly shorter than Ser Gregor Clegane had been, broad-shouldered, battle-hardened, and silent in a way that was more terrifying than shouting. Rumors of his ferocity had traveled faster than ravens.
Amory swallowed.
He understood one thing with perfect clarity: his life now depended entirely on the whim of this bastard.
Karl studied him for a moment longer, expression unreadable.
Then he waved a hand.
Two High Mountain clan warriors stepped forward immediately. With brutal efficiency they disarmed Amory, forced him to his knees, and pressed cold steel to his throat.
"Hold him," Karl ordered calmly. "Strip him of that armor."
The warriors obeyed without hesitation.
Karl tilted his head slightly.
"I imagine there are many in King's Landing who would enjoy seeing him properly introduced."
He paused, then glanced sideways.
"Timett."
The one-eyed warrior had remained silent since entering the Red Keep. He stood beside Bronn and several clansmen, blades angled toward Kevan Lannister. When Karl spoke his name, Timett blinked in surprise—then slowly smiled.
Understanding dawned in his single eye.
"Our tribe," Timett said thoughtfully, "has a way of preparing meat. We heat a small knife in boiling oil, coat it in salt… and carve slowly, piece by piece."
He turned his gaze to Amory Lorch and let out a low, humorless chuckle.
"If that does not satisfy you, my lord… we have other methods."
The High Mountain clans were poor. Salt and oil were luxuries beyond waste. Yet the imagery required no authenticity—only imagination.
Karl nodded approvingly.
"Good."
He looked back at the warriors struggling to wrench Amory free of his armor.
"Take care not to damage him too badly."
Amory's helmet was torn off first, revealing his sweat-drenched hair plastered to his scalp. Then came the breastplate, gauntlets, greaves. Each piece clanged to the floor like a funeral bell.
"Please—!" Amory tried to speak, but a rain of fists silenced him. His teeth scattered across the stone like broken dice.
When they were finished, he lay naked and bloodied, bound like livestock.
Karl stepped closer.
In truth, without armor, Amory resembled a slaughterhouse pig more than ever.
Karl spoke evenly.
"Do not let him die. At dawn, bring him to the Great Sept of Baelor. I want every citizen of King's Landing to witness your craftsmanship."
He paused deliberately.
"As you carve, place each piece before him. Let him see exactly what he is losing."
Amory had already lost consciousness.
Perhaps mercy, Karl thought distantly.
The clansmen hauled him away.
The sound of dragging feet echoed long after he vanished from sight.
Silence lingered in the Throne Room.
Littlefinger's expression had grown pale, though his lips still twitched faintly as if calculating odds. Pycelle looked as though he might faint.
"Ser Karl," the Grand Maester croaked at last, hobbling forward. "Forgive an old man's interruption…"
Karl turned toward him with polite curiosity.
"Yes, Grand Maester?"
Pycelle swallowed.
"If you intend to pronounce a death sentence… the laws of the realm require either the King's command or a decree from the Small Council."
The words hung awkwardly in the air.
Even Littlefinger and Varys cast him sidelong looks.
Karl blinked—and then his expression shifted into sudden realization.
"Oh," he said, almost sheepishly. "You are quite right. I nearly forgot such an important matter."
He turned toward Varys.
"Lord Varys, would you kindly remind me tomorrow to formally announce Ser Amory's crimes in the King's name before the execution?"
He folded his hands behind his back.
"As Lord of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and a sworn member of the Small Council, I trust I possess sufficient authority to represent His Grace in this matter."
He looked toward the others.
"And naturally, I would not wish to proceed without the Council's approval."
His tone was mild.
Almost naive.
Varys bowed smoothly, smile widening.
"You possess every right, my lord. I fully support your judgment."
Littlefinger responded instantly.
"Entirely just, Ser Karl. I agree without reservation."
He knew better than to hesitate.
Only Pycelle remained.
Karl's eyes drifted back to him.
"Grand Maester?"
Pycelle coughed weakly.
"Forgive me… I have served four kings. War has wearied my mind. I meant no disrespect."
Karl regarded him for a long moment.
Then he smiled faintly.
"You have endured much, Grand Maester. I understand."
The matter ended.
Now only one man remained.
Kevan Lannister.
Since Karl's arrival, Kevan had neither protested nor panicked. He had stood watching quietly, hands folded, expression calm.
Almost reflective.
Now, as Karl's gaze finally met his, Kevan offered a faint, tired smile.
"Ser Karl Stone," he said evenly, "perhaps no one ever imagined that the man who would destroy House Lannister would be a bastard."
The word did not sound like an insult.
It sounded like a conclusion.
The Throne Room shifted subtly as those present absorbed his meaning.
And suddenly—
They understood.
Since Jon Arryn's death.
Since King Robert's northern journey.
Since whispers began and alliances shifted—
Karl Stone had been present.
Not always at the center.
Not even prominently.
But always there.
He had been knighted during the royal progress.
He had traveled north.
He had discovered Queen Cersei's affair with her twin brother, Jaime Lannister.
Many in this very room had known of that secret.
But Karl had witnessed something more damning.
He had seen them attempt to murder Bran Stark.
He had saved the boy.
That single moment had unraveled everything.
Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer.
Queen Cersei Lannister.
Both dead in Winterfell.
Their deaths had ignited suspicion.
Stannis Baratheon had seized upon the opportunity, revealing proof that Joffrey and his siblings were not Robert's trueborn heirs.
The Lannisters' years of manipulation collapsed overnight.
War followed.
Tywin Lannister had fought brilliantly. Strategically. Desperately.
He had nearly stabilized the situation.
And then—
Karl had returned from the Vale.
With barely two thousand mountain clansmen.
Against all expectation, he breached King's Landing within hours.
The capital—the Lannisters' final bargaining chip—fell like a cracked shield.
It was absurd.
Impossible.
And yet—
Here he stood.
The bastard who had once been little more than a mercenary now controlled the Iron Throne's seat of power.
Kevan's gaze sharpened slightly.
"You were present at every turning point," he said quietly. "Never the center. Never the obvious threat."
He gave a faint, humorless chuckle.
"A butterfly, perhaps."
Karl did not respond.
"But it was your wings," Kevan finished, "that stirred the storm."
No one spoke.
The realization settled heavily upon them all.
This towering young man—dismissed for his birth, underestimated for his station—had systematically dismantled the greatest house in Westeros.
Not through brute force alone.
But through timing.
Through survival.
Through being present where fate twisted.
Kevan exhaled slowly.
"House Lannister may have had many enemies," he said. "But its true ruin… stands before me."
Ser Karl Stone.
The bastard.
The conqueror.
The unexpected architect of a dynasty's fall.
And for the first time since entering the Throne Room—
Karl allowed himself the faintest smile.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)