The next morning, long before the sun fully rose, King Robert Baratheon left for the hunt.
It was earlier than usual—so early the air was still blue-grey, and the campfire smoke clung low to the ground like fog. Yet instead of bringing his customary entourage of guards, hunters, and courtiers, Robert took only two Kingsguard knights. The rest of the group consisted of barely a dozen scattered cavalrymen and a few servants whose main responsibilities were to carry tents, wine barrels, and food.
This was a sparse, humble hunting party—almost embarrassingly so for a king.
But Robert didn't seem to care. He gripped his spear, swung himself onto his horse with a grunt, and set off in a foul mood.
Karl watched quietly from the edge of the encampment. Unlike previous hunts, he had not been summoned this time.
It wasn't because the king didn't want him. Robert had made it very clear the night before that he did want Karl Stone to join the hunt—even saying it loudly enough for half the hall to hear.
And that was where the trouble began.
When Queen Cersei Lannister learned—no one knew how—that the king intended to take a lowborn commoner, a bastard no less, on an intimate royal hunt, she exploded.
Witnesses weren't allowed inside their room, of course. But three Kingsguard had stood guard outside the door. And even the thick oak walls had not been able to muffle the storm of their argument.
Within hours, gossip had spread like wildfire.
By the time evening arrived and the moon rose halfway into the sky, everyone in the entire camp—even the horses, it seemed—already knew that the King and Queen had quarreled over a Bastard.
Karl didn't even want to know the details, yet they reached his ears unbidden:
how Cersei had accused Robert of being reckless, impulsive, humiliating her;
how Robert had shouted back that she had no right to tell him whom he could hunt with;
how a Bastard had somehow become the centerpiece of their domestic battle.
To the servants, it was thrilling.
To the nobles, it was scandalous.
To Karl, it was mortifying.
But it also told him something important.
This accident—the king's sudden desire to hunt with him—really had been just a whim. A spontaneous impulse. Nothing deeper, nothing plotted.
Cersei's furious reaction confirmed it.
And so, as Karl watched Robert's distant form disappear beyond the treeline, he allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.
"Good," he murmured quietly. "If Cersei interfered, then it really wasn't planned. It's just an accident."
Still, Karl could not forget what Tyrion had said yesterday—the strangest piece of this entire event:
The person who told Robert about the wild bulls wasn't a hunter or a scout.
It was Ser Raimon Darry.
Karl frowned, thinking back.
"Raimon Darry? Why would he tell Robert something like that?" Karl muttered under his breath. "He doesn't even like Robert…"
Tyrion had recounted the story in detail:
When Robert arrived at Darry, he had summoned the lord of the castle for a private conversation. They spoke for a quarter of an hour behind closed doors. Raimon Darry had entered the hall with a cold, stiff face… yet emerged smiling warmly, even inviting the king to stay for several days.
It made no sense.
Robert refused, of course. And only then, as if casually, did Raimon mention the wild bulls near the Trident.
That single comment had triggered everything that followed.
Karl sighed. "Maybe I really am overthinking things."
But even so, he whispered a quiet prayer for the hunting party disappearing into the forest.
"I hope the king doesn't actually run into a wild bull today…"
Just as he stood alone, letting his thoughts drift, a familiar, mischievous voice came from behind him.
---
"Do you know," Tyrion said, sauntering toward him with his hands clasped behind his back, "that if a noblewoman's husband brings a bastard home to be raised with the legitimate children, she has every right to mistreat him?"
He gave Karl a sly look.
"And no one—absolutely no one—will say a word about it. Not even the father."
Karl turned around, his expression icy.
Tyrion was dressed in a finely tailored red velvet outfit embroidered with golden lions—clearly custom-made. The expensive clothes gave him an air of dignity, even nobility, though his short stature and oversized head made the effect… somewhat strange.
To Karl, the impression was clear:
He still looks more like a circus jester than a lord.
"I don't know," Karl replied coldly. "My mother was an ordinary peasant woman. She woke from a dream that wasn't hers and rebuilt her own life the way common people do."
He paused, then gave Tyrion a faint, sharp smile.
"So I don't know who my father is, nor did I grow up enjoying the 'luxury' of being raised by nobles."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. He could practically hear Karl grinding the word "luxury" through his teeth.
"Well," he said lightly, "then it seems you should be thankful."
Karl simply nodded.
"I suppose you're right."
Tyrion blinked, taken aback by how little effect his taunting had. So he changed tactics.
"Tell me, Karl… don't you envy me?" Tyrion asked, lifting his chin with exaggerated pride.
Karl paused for a beat.
"Oh, absolutely," he replied with utter sincerity. "If you were tall and handsome like me, maybe you wouldn't spend every day wasting your life in brothels."
Tyrion visibly flinched.
Karl smiled. It was his turn to press the advantage.
"Speaking of which, are you not returning to Casterly Rock simply because you don't want to?"
Direct hit.
A clean shot straight into the dwarf's deepest wound.
"Seven hells," Tyrion spat, flipping him the middle finger. "I must've drunk bad wine to waste my time worrying about a Bastard. Because that's all you are—a Bastard!"
Karl's grin widened.
"Thanks for the compliment."
He stepped past Tyrion and began walking toward the tavern attached to the Crossroads Inn.
Over his shoulder he called, "The Bastard is going to get breakfast. I'll even treat my friend to a cup of ale."
Tyrion immediately perked up.
"Those are my gold dragons," he shouted, hurrying after him. "So I'll have three cups!"
Karl barked a laugh. "No problem. And if that's not enough, Fox should still have plenty left in its belly. I fed it oats all night."
Tyrion made a face. "You mean that cursed gelding of yours? Keep it. Sell it. Eat it for all I care!"
"Oh, that reminds me," Tyrion added suddenly, leaning closer. "Where did that red wine you gave me last time come from? Do you have more?"
Karl raised an eyebrow.
"That good, was it?"
"That was the best wine I've ever tasted," Tyrion declared. "If you have enough of it, we could start a business. You'd make enough gold to buy a castle. Robert might even knight you!"
He paused dramatically.
"Oh—and have you decided on a proper family name yet, Ser Karl-something?"
Karl stopped walking.
Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head and gave Tyrion a look that could cut through plate armor.
"Tyrion," he said softly, "before I regret this conversation… change the subject."
Tyrion grinned.
"Then thank you for sending that girl to my room last night!"
Karl clenched his fist.
"Fuck."
The two walked together toward the tavern—bickering, mocking each other, yet somehow… friends.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)