The moment Tyrion stepped over the threshold, he forced himself to straighten his spine and rub his face, as if this tiny gesture could somehow refresh him after the exhausting morning. Outside, the massive wheelhouse dominated the courtyard like a lumbering beast made of wood and gold. It was impossible to miss—large, extravagant, and undeniably excessive.
Dozens of stable hands scurried around the forty muscular warhorses harnessed to the colossal carriage. Their grunts, shouts, and curses blended into a chaotic symphony as they struggled to keep the restless beasts under control. Servants darted between them carrying water buckets, saddles, toolboxes, and bundles of rope.
The entire area around the wheelhouse had transformed into a lively and crowded marketplace, simply because anything involving the royal family inevitably drew a ridiculous amount of attention.
Tyrion ignored all of it.
He waved a hand weakly, face drooping with a mixture of annoyance and boredom. Despite having energy to spare—more energy than most normal-sized men, much less dwarves—he was helpless on horseback. No matter how powerful or lively he was, his short limbs and small build left him confined to the saddle like a child strapped to a chair.
Even if he had the vigor to attend to a whole brothel of women afterward, the constraints of a dwarf's body meant he could do nothing but endure the endless chafing between his thighs and the horse. It was an indignity he had grown used to, though he would never call it enjoyable.
But as the Queen's brother, at least no one dared restrict his movements. That was something, wasn't it?
Unfortunately, it didn't help that the King himself was in a notoriously foul mood today. Robert Baratheon's emotions were always worn plainly on his face, as visible as his beard. Subtlety had never been one of his virtues.
Every time someone passed near him, they could hear him muttering curses under his breath, the phrase "seven hells" erupting out of him more than a dozen times since dawn.
With the King growling like a chained bear, Tyrion already knew enough to brace himself for trouble. If Karl's earlier prediction meant anything, today was destined to be one of those days.
Tyrion exhaled deeply and motioned behind him.
"Come along, Karl. Whatever we need should be at the back of the wheelhouse."
Karl didn't argue. He simply pressed his lips together and followed.
They squeezed into the growing crowd—Tyrion, small and sharp-eyed, and Karl, tall and imposing like a young warrior god. People glanced at them here and there, but the stares were brief. There was too much happening around the wheelhouse for anyone to pay prolonged attention to two Lannisters and a tall foreign-looking man.
Just as they reached the side of the wheelhouse, intending to circle around to the supply area, the door suddenly swung open.
It wasn't loud. The door was well-oiled and moved smoothly, barely making a sound at all.
Yet somehow that soft creak instantly sliced through all the noise around them.
The shouting stable boys fell quiet. The servants froze mid-step. Conversations died on people's lips. A hush washed over the courtyard as everyone turned toward the opening door.
Karl stiffened instinctively.
Tyrion, on the other hand, could see nothing but a wall of backsides.
He blinked up irritably.
"What—why is everyone so quiet? Karl? What's happening? I can't see past these people's arses!"
But Karl wasn't listening. His attention had already been captured.
Standing beside the wheelhouse with a stance like a marble statue was a man every inhabitant of Westeros would recognize—the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister.
He was dressed in full white armor, his white cloak draped over his muscular shoulders. His golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, almost as bright as the armor he wore. Handsome, elegant, and dangerous—he embodied the legend he was known for.
But the crowd's attention wasn't on Jaime.
Their eyes drifted past him, toward the open door.
A figure stepped out.
A woman.
No—not just any woman.
A beauty crafted by the gods, draped in a magnificent red off-shoulder gown, gold jewelry glittering at her neck and wrists. Her movements were graceful, her posture regal, her expression poised.
Cersei Lannister.
Robert Baratheon's queen.
Jaime Lannister's twin.
The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
The sun hit her golden waves of hair at just the right angle, making them shimmer like polished coins. She placed one elegant foot onto the ground, and the world seemed to pause for her.
Even Karl had to admit—she was breathtaking.
Her beauty was sharper and more refined than in the series Karl remembered. On screen she always carried an aura of arrogance, bitterness, and suppressed cruelty. But here—now—her smile softened her features, making her look gentle, refined, even approachable.
The faint marks of motherhood—small lines at the corners of her eyes, a subtle maturity in her expression—only added to her allure instead of diminishing it.
As she lowered her dress and steadied herself, she suddenly froze.
Her emerald gaze flicked toward a point in the crowd.
Karl felt his stomach clench when he realized she was staring at him.
Her pleasant smile disappeared instantly.
Beside her, Jaime stiffened and followed her gaze. His expression shifted the moment he spotted Karl towering over the crowd by more than a head. With his clean, sharp features and deep blue eyes, Karl stood out like a foreign prince among commoners.
Jaime recognized him immediately.
Of course he did.
Tyrion had dragged Karl around enough over the past six months that the Kingslayer had no choice but to know him. And unlike Tyrion—who treated Karl like a favored wine companion—Jaime's feelings toward him were… complicated.
For Jaime, Karl was a reminder of certain rumors.
For Cersei, Karl represented something even more troublesome.
Karl lowered his head quickly, pretending he was oblivious to the queen's stare.
Tyrion tugged at his sleeve.
"Karl, what's going on? Why is everyone so quiet? Seven hells, you're tall—tell me what's happening!"
Karl snapped out of his thoughts.
"Let's go, Dwarf. You won't see anything anyway."
He forced a casual tone, hoping to deflect attention.
"And unless you want to wait for a circus to build you custom stilts, we'd best get back to what we were doing."
Tyrion groaned loudly at the insult.
"Stilts, is it? Honestly, the things I endure…"
He waddled forward, still muttering curses about tall people and inconvenient body proportions.
Karl followed, but he could feel Cersei's gaze lingering on his back—the weight of it heavy, sharp, and unmistakably unpleasant.
He didn't have to look to know that she still hadn't recovered her expression.
Nor did he need to see Jaime's face to know the Kingslayer was watching too, a silent sigh in his eyes.
Karl swallowed and quickened his pace.
Today was definitely going to be a troublesome day.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)