A Dornish wife is as fair as the sun, and her kisses warmer than the first spring breeze.
But Dornish spears are forged of black iron, and their kisses are crueler still.
A Dornish wife sings while she bathes, her voice sweet as a ripe peach.
But Dornish spears sing their own sharp tune—cold and hungry, like leeches in the night.
"He fell to the ground," the bard had sung, "darkness echoing in his ears and blood thick on his tongue."
His brother knelt to pray for him, but the dying man only laughed and gasped:
Brother, my end is near. The Dornishmen have taken my body—but I have tasted a Dornish wife.
Karl hummed that final line under his breath, letting the tune settle lazily on the warm wind as he rode. Fox, his sturdy chestnut horse, tossed his head and snorted, as if even he had heard the song too many times. The beast's steady breaths puffed in gentle bursts, hooves tapping against the dirt road in a slow, alternating rhythm.
Ahead of them, the world stretched into the reddening dusk. The King's procession was already visible—an enormous river of men, wagons, and banners moving along the King's Road. Even beneath the gathering darkness, they shone like a trail of living gold. Dust rose in a thick yellow veil behind them, swirling in the late light like a storm of fine sand.
Karl stopped humming, his mouth suddenly dry. He straightened his back, wiping the carefree expression off his face. A hired knight couldn't look too relaxed around royalty, much less that particular royal.
The Dornishman's Wife was a song he'd learned long ago in the Free Cities, while drifting from tavern to tavern after leaving the Vale. A bard had sung it in a brothel—half drunk, half brilliant—while men tossed coppers at his feet and women laughed on his lap. Karl never knew if the song mocked the Dornish or simply entertained men who liked to brag about things they'd never dare attempt. But it was catchy, terribly so, and even now it lingered between his teeth.
Pulling Fox aside, Karl guided him to the edge of the road. The silver-armored vanguard thundered past moments later, followed by line after line of soldiers and retainers. Karl barely spared them a glance; he was searching for someone else.
Then he spotted him.
A fat man trudged between the cavalry and the massive wheelhouse—flanked by two Kingsguard in white cloaks that glowed dimly in the dusk.
King Robert Baratheon.
Karl inhaled deeply through his nose, imitating Fox's heavy breaths, but instantly regretted it as a cloud of dust slapped into his face.
"Seven hells," he muttered, sputtering. "Someone should compose a song about how miserable marching at the rear is."
He nudged Fox forward anyway. The horse flicked his ears in protest.
Robert sat atop a hulking black warhorse, its three white hooves flashing each time it stepped. Even from behind, the King looked like a man carved from a boulder—broad, heavy, and already irritated by the day. His thick beard hid most of his expression, but Karl could tell when the King was pleased by the slight twitch of amusement beneath it.
And today, seeing Karl approach did amuse him.
Karl kept half a horse's length back—proper respect—and called out, "Your Majesty! Five more miles to the inn. Everything is prepared for your arrival."
A Kingsguard blocked the direct line between Karl and the King, sitting stiff in his saddle. The white enamel of his armor gleamed faintly, and through the slit of his visor, his eyes rested on Karl with cold suspicion.
Karl met the stare. That short, outward-bent leg was unmistakable.
Ser Boros Blount. Thick of waist, thick of temper, and thick of loyalty—though perhaps not to Robert.
Karl didn't flinch. What did he care if the Kingsguard didn't like him? Men who served the wheelhouse more than the crown had no right to glare at anyone.
"Seven hells," Robert groaned, rubbing his lower back. "I can barely remember the last time I sat on a horse swinging a hammer. Wind back then was cooler too. Now it's like my arse is swimming in a bucket of my own sweat. Gods, I'd rather the wetness be on tangled sheets!"
Karl stared straight ahead, pretending he hadn't heard that.
"Bah!" Robert spat. "Boring company. Boring journey. And that thrice-damned wheelhouse creaking behind me—may it fall apart and save us all the trouble!"
Everyone heard who he was cursing. No one responded. A Kingsguard's silence was an oath, after all.
"Pick up the pace!" Robert roared suddenly. "If I reach the table and need a candle to tell whether I'm eating venison or someone's bloody finger, I'll have heads rolling!"
At once, riders broke from the column and galloped ahead to speed preparations at the inn.
Karl watched them go before peeling away from Robert, relieved. The King's voice had already frayed his ears.
Calling Robert father had never come naturally. The man he knew was a loud, sweat-soaked, half-drunk force of nature who cursed with every breath. Karl had known many men like him in taverns and battlefields. The only difference was that Robert paid in gold dragons instead of silver stags.
Any other time, Karl might have welcomed that, taken Kesi and the men to Silk Street, and bragged that Ser Stone was buying the night. But tonight wasn't a night for swagger.
He used the moment to slip away from the King's side, riding behind the small preparation team toward the inn.
On this quieter stretch of road, Karl's thoughts drifted to dinner.
Maybe a large mug of ale.
Three plates of meat.
Bread fresh enough to steam when torn open.
Rabbit? Lamb? Maybe the innkeeper had bought a wild boar from a hunter.
He imagined marinating meat in salt and herbs, roasting it over flame until the fat dripped into the fire in thick sizzling tears. He imagined tossing the meat—bone and all—into a pot with onions, carrots, and water. Add rosemary if lucky. Mint if fortune smiled. Stew it until it fell apart from a mere pinch.
Then bread, potatoes, or anything at all—so long as there was a mountain of gravy poured over it.
Yes. That would be a meal worth the miles.
Fox quickened his step, as if he too smelled stew drifting through the wind.
Soon the inn came into view, buzzing with activity. Men shouted orders, hauling water, stacking firewood, sweeping the courtyard clean enough for a royal horse to eat off.
"Boss!"
The familiar shout echoed before Karl even dismounted. Kesi darted out from under a tree, displaying his infamous missing dog tooth as he grinned.
Karl slid off Fox, patting the horse's neck to calm its labored breaths. "Nothing happened, did it?"
Kesi puffed his chest. "All quiet." He jerked his thumb toward a patch of trees beside the King's Road. Karl followed the gesture.
They'd picked a resting spot—good cover, easy view of the surroundings, close enough to respond if needed.
"Perfect," Karl said. He handed Fox's reins over. "Give him plenty of oats. Add beans too."
"If he loses a pound," Kesi boasted, "I'll carve the meat off my own bones to make up for it!"
Karl smacked him across the back. Kesi stumbled forward with a loud curse, and Fox whinnied in what looked suspiciously like laughter.
"Get to work, fool."
Kesi limped away, muttering dramatically, and the grin he'd worn slipped seamlessly onto Karl's own face.
For a moment, Karl simply watched the man and the horse disappear into the dimming light. Then he touched the hilt of his sword—out of habit, out of grounding—and turned toward the inn.
A long day lay behind him.
Another would begin tomorrow.
But tonight—tonight there would be meat, ale, and perhaps a moment of peace before the storm Kings and lords always carried in their wake.