"Don't worry. I don't think this is unfair."
Carl spoke calmly—too calmly.
But beneath that calmness was a clear and unmistakable contempt, so sharp that everyone could feel it like a blade scraping across their ears.
There was disdain in his voice. Arrogance. And something even worse: absolute certainty.
The moment the words left his lips, the onlookers froze.
It was already shocking enough that Carl Stone insisted on trial by combat when King Robert himself had offered him a safer way out. But now? He wanted two opponents at once?
The crowd exploded into whispers.
"Is he insane?"
"He's only a boy…"
"No—look at him. He means it!"
Even the two knights standing in front of Cersei—Meryn Trant and Boros Blount—were stunned.
A heartbeat later, their shock darkened into anger. Their faces contorted as if Carl had slapped them both across their white-helmed faces.
Because Carl's words were not generosity.
They were mockery—blatant humiliation.
And before the knights could even open their mouths to curse him, Cersei Lannister snapped her head up, eyes blazing with sudden excitement.
"Really?!" she asked breathlessly, as if terrified he might take the offer back.
The crowd stared at her with utter disbelief.
Even Trant and Blount, who had been puffing up their chests seconds ago, froze—staring at their queen like she had lost her mind.
Everyone had assumed Carl was simply provoking them. No one truly believed he would formally allow two foes to face him. Because two against one wasn't merely unfair—it made the entire duel meaningless.
Trial by combat was sacred.
A ritual of justice.
A form of divine arbitration acknowledged by kings, queens, nobles, and smallfolk alike.
But Cersei… took him seriously.
And that was far more outrageous than Carl's provocation.
Yet Carl didn't look surprised at all.
In the firelight, he looked directly at the queen, confidence simmering beneath the surface of his expression.
He nodded.
"Certainly. I'm not lying. I'm quite serious."
The flames crackled around them, reflecting in his eyes with a wild, unwavering brightness. He lifted his chin ever so slightly—proud, resolute, unfazed.
Then he added, calmly and without shame:
"Because I believe in justice. And the Father above protects me."
A strange silence fell.
The crowd stared at him, speechless.
It was impossible to call him naïve—doing so might seem sacrilegious, an insult to the Seven. But if they didn't call him naïve, then what?
Fanatic?
Madman?
Lunatic?
Their earlier admiration for Carl wavered.
Some even felt pity—pity that such a promising young knight seemed deluded by the doctrines of the Faith.
Maybe, they thought, the queen was right.
Maybe the boy was unstable.
Carl didn't know what they were thinking.
And even if he did, he would have laughed.
Instead, impatient, he raised his voice.
"So? Can the two of you hurry up?!"
He twirled his longsword with an effortless flick and took two steps backward, settling into a ready stance.
The arrogance of the gesture made Cersei's smile widen with delight.
She feared only one thing now—that Carl might change his mind.
So before her knights hesitated even a heartbeat longer, she acted.
With elegant hands, she removed a flowered hairpin from her dress and a ring from her finger.
Then she bent down—gracefully, deliberately—and presented the two tokens to the kneeling knights.
"Ser Meryn Trant. Ser Boros Blount," she said softly, her voice like honey and venom.
"I, Cersei Lannister, expect you to bring me glory—and justice."
The men froze, stunned.
In all their years, neither had expected the queen herself to grant them a personal token—something usually given by a beloved lady before war or duel.
A token was a blessing, a charm, a symbol of her favor.
The two knights received the items with trembling hands, their earlier hesitation dissolving instantly. Their breathing grew heavy, their nostrils flaring. Their minds clouded by pride, honor, desire—whatever it was that drove men like them.
They bowed deeply.
They donned their helmets.
They rose.
And together, they drew their longswords with a metallic hiss, turning toward Carl Stone with newfound zeal.
Seeing that they were finally ready, Carl's lip curled slightly in disdain.
Behind the two white-cloaked knights, Queen Cersei stood smiling confidently.
Carl met her gaze and returned her smile—slow, cold, mocking.
Trial by combat was sacred.
And everyone knew the rules.
If both sides agreed—even if the duel became absurdly unfair—it remained legitimate in the eyes of the gods.
Thus, no one stepped forward to protest.
They stood in silence, hearts pounding, waiting for divine judgment to unfold.
Carl lifted his sword casually, watching the two knights approach him from opposite sides.
"It's a pleasure to meet you both," he said, almost cheerfully.
"I don't know either of you personally… but feel honored. Truly."
He raised his sword in greeting.
"These will be the last words you ever hear in this world."
The words had barely left his mouth when he moved.
The knights blinked.
The audience blinked.
Carl vanished.
One heartbeat he stood before them.
The next—he was beside a brazier.
His sword plunged into the metal basin.
And then—
WHOOSH!
Carl flipped the entire brazier toward them, sending a torrent of burning coals flying into the air.
Under the dark night sky, surrounded by bonfires, a sudden rain of fire burst forth, scattering embers in all directions.
"What—?!"
"Seven hells!"
The two knights panicked instantly.
They swung their swords wildly, trying to cut the burning embers out of the air, stumbling backward as sparks flashed across their vision.
Armor protected their bodies from burns, and the firestorm dispersed quickly.
But their eyes—
Their eyes were still blinded by the bright, afterimage of flames.
And when their vision returned—
Carl was gone.
Trant and Blount spun around instinctively.
"You bastard!" Blount roared. "Where are you?!"
He turned.
And turned again—
Still nothing.
Then—
A choked, muffled scream tore through the night.
Blount froze.
The scream came from behind him—from behind Trant.
A cold dread washed through him.
His armor felt suddenly too tight; his breath caught in his throat.
A calm voice whispered behind them:
"Looking for me?"
Blount didn't turn.
He ran—
Instinct taking over.
He rushed forward several steps before finally whirling around.
And the sight he saw made his blood run cold.
Carl stood between them—exactly between the two knights.
His posture relaxed.
His expression indifferent.
His sword extended horizontally.
The tip was buried in the narrow gap between Meryn Trant's helm and throat plate.
It had slid in with precise, horrifying perfection.
Trant was choking, gurgling, unable to comprehend how he had been killed in a single instant. His eyes bulged behind his helm.
He tried to turn his head to see Carl—but the sword lodged in his neck wouldn't let him.
The blade tore deeper as he attempted to move.
Blood poured out of his mouth in thick red streams.
His fingers lost strength.
His sword slipped from his hand with a weak clatter.
His knees buckled.
He collapsed onto the mud, gasping silently like a fish dying on the riverbank.
Blood soaked into his armor, into his white cloak, into the earth itself.
His limbs twitched a few final times before falling still.
His eyes stayed open, filled with shock… and regret.
Carl drew his sword free with a single, smooth motion.
He lifted his head slowly.
His gaze locked on Boros Blount.
The knight's face was pale.
His breath came in short, shallow bursts.
Carl took one step toward him.
Then another.
Finally, he spoke—calmly, confidently, cruelly.
"Your turn."
He raised his sword.
"The esteemed Ser Boros Blount."
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)