There were no Dornish wives in the inn along the King's Road—Karl was certain of that much. And even if there had been, he had no intention of getting stabbed by some outraged Dornishman over a woman. He liked songs about such things, not the actual experience.
Still, when he stepped into the inn, he immediately noticed something different.
The place was livelier than usual—crowded with soldiers, retainers, servants, and the usual mix of opportunistic tavern-goers. But what caught Karl's attention wasn't the noise or the press of bodies.
It was the women.
More than a dozen women he'd never seen before drifted between the tables. Their outfits were revealing, their movements deliberate, and their eyes—sharp, hungry, and calculating—followed the soldiers like wolves stalking prey.
Karl lifted an eyebrow.
So the innkeeper was making the most of the King's traveling army.
And the women weren't the only ones. In a shadowed corner sat two bards, plucking strings lazily, smirking at the women and murmuring to each other. No doubt crafting a new song about the "good service" available tonight.
Karl snorted.
"Robert's trip is making half the realm coins richer…"
He moved to a quiet corner near the wall and sat down. His armor was modest, a little worn, with scratches and dents from real fights—not decorative ones. Compared to the golden and crimson knights in the room, he looked like a poor sellsword.
Normally, women like these would have clung to someone like him. But tonight, with richer prey everywhere, Karl barely earned a glance. That suited him fine.
He took off his helmet, set his sword within easy reach, and called out, "Hey, buddy. What's there to eat?"
A boy—round-faced, red-cheeked, and sweating from the rush—darted past him. Karl's fast hand grabbed the collar of the child's shirt before the boy could bolt by.
The kid froze like a rabbit caught by a hawk. He slowly turned his head.
"Y-yes, sir? What would you like? We—we have everything prepared!"
Karl let go. "Relax. I'm not going to eat you. What's on the menu?"
The boy rubbed his neck and puffed out his chest, repeating his memorized list with surprising confidence.
"We have crispy bread, fried bread, onion cheese pies, and hard bread—just out of the oven! The dishes include honey garlic snails, roasted suckling pig, roasted trout, creamed quail… And soups! Mushroom and butter snail soup, oxtail soup, thick onion stew—everything is fresh today!"
He paused dramatically.
"Oh! And wine! Red wine from Dorn, and good ale, not watered down!"
Karl's eyes lit up. "Quite the feast for a roadside inn."
Of course it was—they'd been expecting the King's party for days. Varys' map had made it clear this inn was marked for royal rest.
Karl wondered briefly if Littlefinger had a hand in this too. Any chance to turn gold into more gold was a chance Baelish would take.
"I'll have an ale, roasted trout, creamed quail, and hard bread," Karl said. "And mushroom snail soup. Looks like you wiped out an entire kingdom of snails."
The boy beamed at the joke. "Right away, sir!"
He sprinted to the kitchen, shouting the order.
Karl leaned back in his chair. Moments later, the boy returned with a horn cup filled with ale.
Karl lifted it, sniffed—then downed it like a man dying of thirst.
"Not watered down," he said with a satisfied grunt. "A rare miracle."
While he wiped the foam from the corner of his mouth, more food arrived—this time delivered by a woman.
She had red-brown hair and bright, youthful eyes. A half-apron clung to her waist, though Karl doubted she did much actual serving most nights. Her figure was generous, her smile practiced, her steps deliberately graceful.
She placed the dishes on the table—steaming trout, crisp bread, creamy quail, and a bowl of thick, fragrant mushroom-snail soup.
Then she straightened up and gave Karl a look that could melt steel.
Karl chuckled. So the women weren't just here to sing or smile—the innkeeper was wringing every drop of profit from the King's visit.
As the woman turned, Karl gently patted her backside—not forcefully, just enough to show appreciation. She didn't flinch. Instead, a slow smile spread across her lips.
"My name is Melinda," she said, untieing her apron with graceful fingers. "And I think Bill—our little server—forgot to tell you about some… other things we offer here, handsome knight."
Knight?
Karl almost laughed. But he didn't correct her.
Melinda set down her tray and—with practiced fluidity—sat on the table directly in front of him, crossing her legs, giving him an unobstructed view of… well, everything.
Karl raised an eyebrow and rested a hand on her thigh. Firm, warm, smooth—clearly she took care of herself.
"I may want a bit of supper later," Karl said, letting his hand slide slightly. "But first, I need to get this into my stomach. It's already screaming at me. Working for the King… not as easy as guarding a merchant caravan."
Her smile deepened. She traced a finger down his hand, her touch warm, her voice a purr. "I'll wait for you, handsome."
Her tongue flicked briefly across her lips. The gesture was subtle but drenched in invitation.
Karl felt a reaction stronger than hunger.
But before Melinda could say anything else—before Karl's imagination could wander too far—a voice suddenly cut into the moment.
"Although it's terribly rude," the voice said behind him, full of irritation, "before you let this man have his dinner, could I have a taste first?"
Karl froze.
Melinda froze.
The entire table seemed to stop breathing.
Karl recognized that voice instantly.
He turned—
—and found himself staring straight into the annoyed, hungry, sweat-soaked face of King Robert Baratheon.