Karl instinctively turned his head when he heard the sudden sound of hooves behind him.
Not far away, a tall, fair-skinned boy in a red-and-gold velvet riding cloak was dismounting from his horse. The boy's green eyes gleamed with a mixture of arrogance and childish curiosity as he glanced toward Karl and the large bison corpse lying beside him.
His thin lips were habitually pursed in an expression that seemed permanently carved into his face—haughty, judgmental, and, quite frankly, irritating. Even without speaking, the boy radiated an air of entitlement so thick it could choke a grown man.
Simply put, he was very annoying.
"Joffrey?!" Karl blurted out with genuine surprise. He had not expected to see that brat here—the future king, if the gods truly lacked mercy.
This place wasn't exceedingly far from the Crossroads Inn, but it wasn't exactly close, either. Even on horseback, it would take a fair ride to reach this part of the woods. Karl had come here because he was tired of staying in camp and becoming the butt of jokes after Cersei's little tantrum. He needed air, quiet, and distance.
Joffrey Baratheon, however, seemed to have sprinted out of camp the moment he learned he could go somewhere without immediately being dragged back by his mother or the Kingsguard. The boy rarely had any freedom when trapped inside the Red Keep.
Yet the moment Karl casually said his name aloud, Joffrey's entire demeanor changed. His eyes flashed with outrage, his nostrils flaring as if he'd just sniffed something foul.
The lowborn in front of him had dared—dared—to address him by name.
"You lowborn bastard!" Joffrey shrieked. "You will address me as Your Highness, or Lord Joffrey Baratheon! Not by my name, you motherless wretch!"
Karl raised an eyebrow at the sudden explosion of royal temper. It seemed the boy's self-importance inflated by the hour.
Instead of responding, Karl let his gaze drift past the furious prince to the man standing behind him.
A tall, broad-shouldered warrior stood beside a grey-black stallion, his face exposed and expression unreadable beneath his smoky-grey armor. His olive-green cloak hung stiffly around him, and his massive frame cast a long shadow on the grass.
Sandor Clegane.
The Hound.
Karl recognized him instantly—Robert Baratheon's loyal dog, fierce, brutal, and unflinchingly obedient to his masters. Karl had never interacted with him directly, but he knew the man's reputation well enough.
Joffrey noticed Karl's silence and misinterpreted it immediately. Believing the bastard to be intimidated into obedience, he smirked with smug satisfaction.
"I can forgive you this once," Joffrey declared magnanimously, puffing up like a rooster. "All you have to do is offer me the prey at your feet. Consider it compensation for your insolence."
"Do it again," he said with a cruel smile, "and I'll have your tongue torn out."
Karl didn't respond. He simply tilted his head slightly and continued staring at Sandor Clegane, who returned the look with a stoic calm that could have been disinterest—or calculation.
Disappointed that Karl didn't immediately grovel, Joffrey clicked his tongue.
"Dog," he snapped, "stay here. I'll go see what that thing is."
Sandor nodded silently, without protest or hesitation. His duty was clear, and so was his place.
As Joffrey strode proudly toward Karl, Sandor allowed himself a glance at the carpet laid out nearby. Fresh fruit and a bottle of dark red wine sat atop it. With a sniff, he caught the tang of alcohol in the air.
A very… inviting aroma.
The Hound tethered his horse loosely, then stepped toward the carpet.
Karl watched the pair with growing amusement. Joffrey approached with the swagger of someone who believed the world belonged solely to him. The riding crop in his hand tapped rhythmically against his leg—a toy, a symbol of power, a tool he would no doubt use on animals and people alike if no one stopped him.
As the prince drew near, Karl finally spoke, his voice calm and steady.
"What was it you asked, Your Highness?"
Joffrey bristled, insulted that the bastard dared to make him repeat anything.
"I said—what is this?" he snapped, pointing his riding crop at the dead bison. "Are you deaf as well as lowborn?"
Behind him, Sandor had already settled onto the carpet, having released his stallion, Stranger, to graze nearby. He picked up an apple and bit into it with a crunch, barely glancing at Karl or the prince.
His attention had drifted to the wine bottle. Something about the scent tugged at him—sweet, rich, and strangely compelling.
Karl nearly chuckled.
The Hound reached out, picked up the bottle, and brought it to his nose. A deep breath, a satisfied grunt, then he tilted the bottle back and drank—
—or tried to.
A faint green spark flashed behind him, so quick and soft that only Sandor saw it.
The next instant, his huge body collapsed with a heavy thud, shaking the carpet.
The wine bottle slipped from his hand, spilling its contents into the grass. The dark red liquid soaked into the earth like spilled blood.
Karl, who had snapped his fingers without turning around, continued staring at Joffrey as though nothing unusual had happened. A faint, eerie smile curled his lips.
Joffrey, so engrossed in his fascination with the dead bison, didn't hear the thud or notice the Hound's fall. He poked the bison's flank with the tip of his boot, then poked it again—because royal curiosity required confirmation.
"A bison?!" Joffrey exclaimed, his voice high with excitement. "Is this a real bison?"
"Perhaps," Karl answered mildly, rubbing his chin.
Then, with a grin that showed too many teeth, he added, "But I'm certain it's not your father."
Joffrey froze.
For a moment, his brain clearly struggled to process what Karl had just said. Usually quick to anger, he stood there in stunned silence, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.
Then, realization struck.
"You— You!" he sputtered. His face flushed red with fury. "You damned bastard, do you have any idea what you're saying?!"
"You lowborn wretch! I'll cut out your tongue myself and feed it to the dogs!"
He raised his riding crop, chest heaving with outrage, completely unaware that his sworn shield was lying unconscious behind him and that Karl, the bastard he thought helpless, was smiling as if amused by a child's tantrum.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)