"Boss! Up ahead—that's the seat of the Darry family!"
Kesi shouted the words loudly, pointing toward the small town in the distance as he rode beside Karl. But the moment he opened his mouth wide enough to yell, a sharp whistle of wind rushed through the gap where one of his front teeth was missing, sending an unpleasant chill straight down his throat. Kesi winced, quickly clamping his mouth shut again.
Karl couldn't help smirking slightly. He patted his reins, slowing his horse to a steady trot. He'd noticed the town long before Kesi pointed it out, but at the earlier distance, it had been nothing more than a speck—just a dark dot against the horizon. Now, as they drew closer and the shape grew clearer, the town took on the silhouette of a small castle estate, humble but solid.
This was Darrytown, the seat of House Darry—a Riverlands noble house marked on the map Varys had provided.
The King's party was heading north toward Winterfell, and this town was one of the necessary rest stops before crossing the Trident River. Whether the Darrys wanted them or not, they would play host to the King of the Seven Kingdoms tonight.
Karl inhaled deeply as memories stirred within him. A thick, oversized book flashed through his mind—The Genealogy and History of the Principal Noble Families of the Seven Kingdoms. He had practically broken his eyes reading it in King's Landing. The tome was enormous, so large that when opened it occupied the entire surface of a table. But inside the heavy binding, the text was so small it looked like a swarm of mosquitoes packed together.
Karl had complained about it to Tyrion once. The little lord had laughed so hard wine came out of his nose.
Still, the book had its uses. It recorded not just lineages but historical grudges and the rise and fall of each notable house—including House Darry.
He remembered their history vividly.
House Darry's origins stretched back to the ancient days when the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea and conquered Westeros. In the Riverlands, the Darrys had once held considerable influence. They were a loyal house—too loyal, perhaps.
During the Blackfyre Rebellions, they had stayed true to House Targaryen.
During Robert's Rebellion, they had done the same.
At the Trident, House Darry had flown the banner of Rhaegar Targaryen—a black stallion beneath the streaming ruby of their house colors—and they had fought fiercely for the prince.
Three Darry sons died in that war, among them Ser Jon Darry, sworn knight of Aerys II's Kingsguard.
With the fall of the dragons, the Darrys paid a heavy price.
They lost half their lands.
Most of their wealth.
Nearly all their fighting men.
What remained was this modest town, the scraps of their former glory. The current lord, Raymun Darry, had only inherited because all his elder brothers had died on the battlefield.
Karl now understood why this stop felt strange.
Robert Baratheon had chosen—of all possible routes—to visit the seat of a house that had fought bitterly against him.
Was it an intentional insult?
A political message?
Or simply the coincidence of traveling the shortest route?
Karl suspected a mixture of Varys' subtle guidance and Robert's petty desire to flaunt his victory, even after all these years.
"Could Robert really be so small-minded?" Karl muttered under his breath. But the answer was obvious.
Yes. Yes, he could.
Unable to untangle the web of motives between Robert, Varys, and the court's politics, Karl shook his head and cleared his thoughts.
"Let's go," he ordered firmly. "We'll have the lord of this place welcome his king."
He glanced behind him at his escort.
"And keep those banners steady. Don't scare the common folk."
The gold-crowned stag of House Baratheon fluttered proudly in the wind above his small escort of mercenaries. They were only a dozen in number, but the emblem alone commanded authority. Still, Karl didn't want to intimidate the villagers unnecessarily.
As they approached, the landscape unfolded before them.
Darrytown was small—so small that calling it a castle felt generous. It was more of a fortified manor house with a few defensive walls erected around it. A handful of guard towers rose from the perimeter, humble and aging.
Above the town flew the banner of House Darry: a black plowman bent over his work on a field of brown.
A hardworking farmer, forever tilling the land.
Karl's lip twitched.
The crest fit the family almost too well now. Once they had been knights, lords, warriors. Now they were little more than humble farmers again, forced by circumstance to return to the soil they once ruled.
As Karl slowed his horse even further, his gaze drifted across the surrounding fields.
Farmland stretched in every direction, golden and green under the afternoon sun. Farmers were bent over crops, tending to wheat and barley. The Riverlands were fertile—perhaps the most fertile place in all of Westeros—and even small houses like the Darrys could survive by working the land.
The people looked up when they heard hoofbeats.
Some froze.
Some tensed as if ready to run.
A few held tools defensively.
But when Karl and his men slowed their pace and kept a respectful distance, the tension eased—slightly.
Karl raised a hand.
"Stay calm. No sudden moves," he murmured to his squad.
They complied immediately.
Yet the farmers continued to stare, their expressions uneasy. They were used to lords and knights, but not to royal envoys. Certainly not envoys bearing the king's colors.
Karl felt a faint sting of sympathy.
This house had lost so much already. This sudden arrival could only alarm them.
Ahead, the town gates opened at last, and seven or eight horsemen rode out in a hurry. Dust rose behind them as they charged forward, clearly intending to intercept the approaching strangers.
They were armored modestly—mail shirts, leather vambraces, cheap helmets—but they were disciplined, a sign that House Darry, however diminished, still held pride in its duty.
Kesi, now riding with his jaw clenched tightly shut to avoid whistling wind, glanced at Karl.
"Boss, looks like the welcoming committee is ready."
Karl nodded.
He straightened his posture, adjusted his cloak, and let his stallion step proudly ahead of the group. His mercenaries followed in precise formation, raising the stag banner high.
The horsemen slowed to a trot as they neared Karl's group. Their leader—a man with graying hair, a weathered face, and the look of someone who had seen too many losses—spurred his horse a little ahead and raised a hand.
"Halt! State your name and business!" he demanded, though his voice carried more worry than hostility.
Karl lifted a hand in return, signaling calm.
"I am Karl Stone," he announced clearly. "In service to King Robert Baratheon. The royal party travels north and will be resting in Darrytown tonight. We are here ahead of the king."
A ripple of visible tension passed through the horsemen.
They exchanged looks—fear, confusion, and a hint of disbelief.
The leader swallowed hard.
"The… King? Here?"
Karl nodded. "Prepare the town. The king's arrival is imminent."
For a moment, the man simply sat frozen in his saddle. Raymun Darry's household must have dreaded this day. To host the king they had once fought against—for them, it must feel like opening old wounds.
Still, after a deep breath, the man steeled himself.
"We… we will welcome His Grace as duty commands."
Karl dipped his head politely. The man turned, signaled his horsemen, and they galloped back toward the town to prepare.
Karl exhaled slowly.
This wouldn't be easy.
Not for the Darrys.
Not for Robert.
Not for anyone.
Politics and grudges lingered like ghosts in Westeros, and today they would all meet at the same table.
Karl glanced at the small town ahead—a place shaped by loyalty, loss, and quiet resilience.
"Let's proceed," he said at last.
He spurred his horse forward, leading his men toward Darrytown and into the shadows of a complicated past—and an even more complicated future.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)