Jaime should have stayed quiet.
If he had kept his mouth shut, Cersei's anger might have simmered down on its own. But the moment he suggested that she eat first, the Queen's irritation surged back instantly—like dry grass that meets a spark.
Cersei yanked her hand away from Jaime's grasp, spun around, and glared at him with burning emerald eyes. Her lips curled with venom.
"I can't even drink a sip of water right now!" she snapped.
Her voice rose at first—sharp enough to turn a few heads—but she quickly controlled herself. The Queen was reckless when angry, but not stupid. After that initial outburst, she lowered her voice to a furious whisper.
"Why do I have to follow that fat pig to that frozen wasteland? Gods, the snow there is enough to freeze a person to death!"
She leaned closer to Jaime's ear, her expression twisted in disgust.
"I'm afraid that when the time comes for him to piss, someone will have to stand guard just to make sure his manhood doesn't freeze off!"
Her words dripped with malice and resentment, each syllable laced with the bitterness she had been swallowing all day. Jaime only stood there, jaw tight, silently enduring the verbal blows.
After all, Cersei wasn't truly angry at him.
Everyone knew why Robert Baratheon was traveling North. Everyone knew which man he sought, and why. The entire Seven Kingdoms could guess the reason behind this urgent trip.
Cersei wasn't stupid.
She knew all of this.
And that was precisely why she was furious.
In her mind, the position of Hand of the King had only one proper candidate—Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock. A man whose power, wealth, and reputation dwarfed that of the entire court combined.
What had the Lannisters done for the Baratheons?
What price had they paid during the rebellion?
What loyalties had they offered—whether sincerely or otherwise?
Yet instead of rewarding Tywin properly, Robert was appeasing him with a mere orphan from the Vale. A bastard boy. A child raised far from court, with no house and no backing.
And then, as if humiliating the Lannisters wasn't enough, Robert planned to travel North to find that damned Stark.
Cersei's fury wasn't just about the upcoming journey. It was about everything—every slight, every insult, every reminder that she had married a man who preferred the dead to the living.
A man who still whispered another woman's name.
Cersei took a slow breath. The initial outburst seemed to release some of the boiling anger inside her. She calmed, though her face remained icy.
Finally, she pursed her lips, gave Jaime one last glare, and marched toward the woods ahead—her skirts lifted elegantly so they wouldn't drag through the dirt.
Jaime sighed, helpless as ever.
He adjusted the longsword at his hip and followed quietly behind her.
---
Karl's Song
Not far from the wheelhouse, Karl had already forgotten the Queen's piercing stare and Tyrion's indignant curses. After filling his stomach and teasing the dwarf until he nearly exploded, Karl felt like a contented wolf basking in the sun.
He sat atop the wooden frame of a supply carriage, legs dangling freely. The golden light of the setting sun washed over him, tinting his hair and armor in warm hues. He held a blade of grass between his teeth like some lazy farmhand without a care in the world.
And then—perhaps out of boredom, perhaps out of cheer—he began to sing.
"I fell in love with a maiden fair as summer,
the sunlight on her hair…"
His voice carried surprisingly well, drifting on the breeze. It had a roughness to it, but also a warmth—an unpolished charm.
"I fell in love with a beauty radiant as autumn sun,
the sunset glow upon her tresses…"
Nearby, Tyrion was rummaging through a chest loaded with books, looking for something appropriate to give Karl. But the moment the dwarf heard Karl's ballad, Tyrion froze completely.
His hand hovered motionless mid-reach, the book he was about to pull slipping from his grasp. His expression went blank—shock, confusion, curiosity all mixing together.
Karl continued.
"I fell in love with a maiden white as winter snow,
the moonlight on her temples…"
He paused.
Then paused again.
The melody drifted off as he realized—
He had forgotten the next line.
Tyrion blinked several times, then shook himself out of his daze. He stopped rummaging, plucked two random books from the chest without even glancing at their titles, and jumped down from the wagon's frame with surprising agility.
Books tucked under his arm, Tyrion walked over to Karl. However, he didn't offer the books yet. Instead, he tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and spoke in an unusually solemn tone.
"If you sing this song for me a hundred times," Tyrion said, "perhaps I'll consider giving you another gold dragon."
Karl froze.
The grass he had been chewing stopped moving.
Slowly, he turned his head and stared at Tyrion as if examining a strange new species of lizard.
For a solid thirty seconds, Karl simply looked at him—expression blank but eyes full of suspicion.
Finally, Karl spat out the blade of grass and spoke.
"First of all," Karl said, "I'm a mercenary. I earn my living licking blood off the blade."
He jabbed a thumb casually at his sword.
"Secondly, I suppose there's no shame in being a part-time bard. Many noblewomen adore men with silver tongues."
He paused deliberately.
Then his gaze dropped from Tyrion's eyes to Tyrion's short legs, then down to the ground, then back up again—slowly, mockingly.
"So tell me," Karl said seriously, "has your brain been kicked by a donkey today? Or did something else hit it?"
Karl hopped down from the wagon. He clenched his fists and glared at the dwarf as if ready to punch him into the next kingdom.
This bastard actually dared to treat him like a singing prostitute.
But Tyrion, unmoved by Karl's aggressive posture, simply tossed the books onto the ground beside Karl. He brushed off his hands, strolled forward, and—quite unexpectedly—jumped up to sit beside Karl on the carriage frame.
With a sigh, he looked at the golden sun resting on the mountain ridge.
"Do you know what song you were singing?" Tyrion asked, his voice calm, almost wistful.
But before Karl could answer, Tyrion continued.
"It's called My Season of Love. A ballad from Myr."
He tapped his fingers on the wood beneath him.
"But the way you sang it… gods, that wasn't a ballad. What you did sounded like a declaration of war."
He continued, voice softening.
"The original song is meant to be sweet. Melancholic. Like weeping and longing—reaching out for something you can't grasp."
He lowered his gaze, eyes reflecting the last rays of daylight.
"It's like the moon on water… an illusion. A lie. A lie that shatters easily."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"A lie that can be broken with a single gold dragon."
For once, Tyrion wasn't joking. His words carried a tone Karl rarely heard—something close to vulnerability.
But Karl didn't reply.
The silence stretched.
After several long moments, Tyrion turned to look at him—confused by the lack of response.
Karl reached up, plucked the blade of grass from his mouth, and straightened his posture. He looked at Tyrion seriously.
"I heard sorrow in your voice," Karl said quietly. "Like a fishy wind from the Blackwater River. But colder… colder than the snow in the North."
There was no sarcasm, no mockery, no playful tone. Just plain truth.
Tyrion blinked, stunned.
Then he scoffed.
He lifted his chin and smirked with exaggerated disdain.
"Little brat, I bet you've never even seen real snow."
He leaned closer, eyebrows raised.
"Tell me—do you even remember the first winter you lived through?"
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)