Contrary to Karl's expectations, after Robert Baratheon seized Ser Raimon Darry's small farmer's fort, nothing happened next.
No feasts, no demands, no interrogations. The king didn't even ask the Darry household to provide hospitality. He simply stayed for one night and pushed everyone to move out again before dawn.
It was as if the entire detour had been meaningless—a brief pause to stretch one's legs rather than a royal visit.
Of course, "nothing happening" was the best outcome, especially because Ser Raimon Darry clearly held no fondness for the King of the Seven Kingdoms—Robert Baratheon I, victor of the Trident.
Even so, the lord of Darry Castle observed all the proper courtesies. Custom demanded hospitality, and custom he delivered—no more, no less.
After leaving Darry lands, Karl and the rest of the escort rode for half a day until they reached the south bank of the Trident. There they waited for the royal column to finish crossing before continuing on. Another half-day's journey later, Robert gave an order that shocked everyone:
"We make camp at the Crossroads Inn."
This was uncharacteristic of the king. Until now, he had insisted on pushing as far as possible each day, not stopping until the sky grew dark. Karl had even received a "guidebook" in advance—a rough schedule of Robert's journey—and nothing in it suggested a stop here.
Yet here they were, arriving at the Crossroads Inn while the sky was still bright.
Karl frowned. Robert Baratheon—of all people—changing plans?
He could not keep the doubts out of his mind. In the original story, after Jon Arryn's death, Robert's journey north had been a desperate sprint. He had moved like a man chased by demons, rushing toward Winterfell to secure Ned Stark's support before the political situation in King's Landing collapsed.
He had driven the entire royal party forward relentlessly. And by doing so, he had managed the near-impossible—traveling from King's Landing to Winterfell by land in just one month.
That urgency, that raw desperation, was proof of how dire the situation had been.
But now?
Less than a week after leaving King's Landing, having covered barely a quarter of the journey—and the easiest part at that—Robert suddenly stopped?
Karl didn't like unexpected variables.
And the Crossroads Inn wasn't just any ordinary inn. In the original timeline, Robert would only stop here on the journey south, after Ned Stark had been named Hand of the King. It was here that Arya Stark and Joffrey Baratheon fought by the riverbank.
Here that Arya's direwolf Nymeria bit Joffrey.
Here that the butcher's boy Mycah lost his life.
And here that poor Lady, Sansa's direwolf, was killed by Ned Stark's own hand—a heavy price for Sansa's first lesson in politics and cruelty.
Cersei Lannister won the first battle in the invisible political war between lions and wolves, long before arriving at King's Landing.
This inn would become a hinge in the wheel of fate. And for it to appear now—out of order—made Karl uneasy.
So after settling into his room, Karl immediately sought out Tyrion Lannister, the one person who always seemed to know what others didn't.
He didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"What is the king up to?" he asked with a frown.
Tyrion sat comfortably with a silver wine cup in hand, swirling the red liquid. But his eyes—sharp and knowing—remained fixed on Karl.
When he spoke, it was with complete calm.
"Our king heard rumors of wild bison roaming near here."
"Ah…?"
The words were so unexpected, Karl froze for a moment like an idiot.
Hunting?
Robert stopped here because he heard there were wild bison?
Karl blinked. The explanation was simple—too simple.
Yes, Robert loved hunting. Loved feasting. Loved drinking, gambling, and sleeping with women. He famously avoided governing, pushing all responsibility onto Prime Minister Jon Arryn.
But this situation was different.
Jon Arryn was dead.
The realm was unstable.
The Iron Throne's political balance was on the verge of collapse.
And Robert—despite looking like a drunk brute—was not a fool.
Karl's brows tightened. "This doesn't make sense. Robert shouldn't be thinking of hunting at a time like this."
Most people believed Robert Baratheon was nothing more than a gluttonous, lustful, short-tempered warrior king. But Karl knew better.
A stupid man could never have risen from Storm's End to overthrow the Targaryen dynasty and sit on the Iron Throne.
A stupid man would not have recognized the need to bring Ned Stark south immediately after Jon Arryn's death.
Robert knew the realm was on the edge.
He knew that without Ned—a powerful, respected outsider to balance Lannister influence—the political machine of Westeros would collapse.
He knew Tywin Lannister had expected to be named Hand of the King.
And he knew denying that expectation would cause tension.
Robert had even tried to stabilize Tywin by offering him a political gift: allowing Tywin to foster Robert Arryn, Jon Arryn's young son, in Casterly Rock.
Officially it was to "teach him how to rule."
Unofficially, it was a peace offering. An exchange of interests.
But Lysa Arryn shattered the plan. She fled King's Landing in secret, taking her son back to the Vale and accusing the Lannisters of murder.
Tywin lost the political leverage he was supposed to gain.
Cersei was furious.
And King Robert had no choice but to immediately ride north to bring Ned south.
Without Ned, the Lannisters' influence would become absolute—and that would plunge the realm into instability.
Karl knew all this, and for that reason, Robert taking a "hunting break" felt wrong.
Unless…
Unless the hunting excuse was a smoke screen.
Karl slowly crossed his arms. "Is this really just about bison?"
Tyrion's lips curved slightly, amused by Karl's suspicion. "Of course not. Our dear king does love hunting, but he's not blind. He knows why he's traveling north."
He took a slow sip of wine.
"But even a king must breathe, Karl. He's marching with a full royal column, the queen, children, guards, and servants. He cannot move as quickly as he wants. And he knows he cannot show too much desperation, or the court will see blood in the water."
Karl felt the tension in his shoulders loosen—slightly.
Tyrion continued, "And besides… the king's true purpose for stopping is not bison. It's information."
Karl blinked. "Information?"
"The Crossroads Inn," Tyrion said, his eyes glittering, "is the most traveled stop between the capital and the North. Merchants, travelers, sellswords, even spies pass through constantly. Robert wants to hear rumors. Gauge public sentiment. And—most importantly—send or receive messages without the queen watching."
Karl inhaled sharply.
That made sense.
Too much sense.
Tyrion leaned back. "A king cannot openly act like a man preparing for political war. But a king who stops for hunting…"
He shrugged.
"…who questions that?"
Karl nodded slowly. Robert Baratheon—beneath the wine belly, the crude jokes, and the booming laughter—still retained the instincts of the warrior who smashed Rhaegar Targaryen to death on the banks of this very river.
Karl sighed. "So the hunting is a façade."
"Partly." Tyrion chuckled. "Do not underestimate the value of a good façade. Especially when it involves large animals and sharp weapons."
Karl snorted.
He knew Robert enough to know that even if the stop was political, the king would absolutely use the chance to swing a spear at something large and wild.
But Karl's unease remained.
"Even if the stop is strategic," Karl said, "isn't it still risky? Every day of delay brings the realm closer to chaos."
"That," Tyrion said softly, "is exactly why the king must delay."
Karl stared. "I don't follow."
Tyrion placed his cup down and leaned forward.
"Because every step north increases the queen's anxiety."
Karl felt his breath catch.
Cersei Lannister did not want Ned Stark to become Hand of the King.
She did not want an honorable, incorruptible man in King's Landing.
She did not want someone who could threaten her influence or uncover the truth behind Jon Arryn's death.
Tyrion whispered,
"Robert wants to pressure her. The slower he goes, the more unpredictably he acts, the less control she has."
Karl felt a chill travel down his spine.
"So this stop… is part of a psychological game."
"Yes." Tyrion smiled wryly. "A game between a king and a queen whose marriage is a battlefield."
Karl finally understood.
Robert was not delaying because he was lazy or indulgent.
He was delaying because unpredictability was a weapon—and he was using it to keep Cersei off-balance.
A king who rushes north looks desperate.
A king who pauses for hunting looks confident.
And confidence was a form of power.
Karl exhaled deeply.
It seemed the game of thrones had already begun—even here, far from King's Landing.
And the Crossroads Inn, a simple white-stone building at the meeting of roads, had become a stage for political maneuvering long before the famous wolf and lion ever clashed here.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)