Carl didn't hesitate for even a heartbeat when he threatened the brat in front of him. He had expected Joffrey to shriek, to panic, maybe even to try to struggle or scream for help. But what he didn't expect was for the little bastard to crumble instantly—so quickly, so pathetically, that even Carl momentarily faltered.
The boy's mind wasn't just weak; it was brittle. At the slightest hint of real danger, Joffrey shattered completely, collapsing into a pitiful heap of tears, snot, and incoherent noises. The sight of him—this golden-haired prince renowned for his cruelty—trembling and falling apart at the first true challenge was so grotesquely pathetic that Carl paused with his whip still raised mid-air.
He hadn't intended to kill him. Scare him senseless? Yes. Humiliate him? Absolutely. He wanted the boy to feel even a fraction of the pain he had inflicted on others. The whip Carl held was only supposed to frighten him—perhaps hurt him enough to remind him he wasn't untouchable. Nothing more.
After all, Carl wasn't a sadist. He wasn't unhinged like Joffrey, nor did he take pleasure in tormenting a child, even if the child in question happened to be a rotten little tyrant in the making. The slap he had delivered earlier—heavy, impulsive, almost fatal—had been a moment of blind rage, but it had also drained that same rage from him.
But the world—especially this world—never let a man cool down properly.
Today, misfortune had marched straight up to him, wearing silk, arrogance, and the Lannister lion. And between Joffrey's entitled shrieking, his constant attempts to assert dominance, and Cersei Lannister's earlier provocations, Carl's patience snapped. His anger surged again like a flood, drowning reason.
He could have left it at that. He really could have.
But Joffrey insisted—no, demanded—to make things worse.
One moment, he groveled like a beaten dog. The next, he puffed himself up with delusional self-importance, spouting threats and insults as if the iron throne itself protected him. His entire existence seemed dedicated to provoking Carl again and again, as if he enjoyed tempting fate.
So Carl considered it—genuinely considered whether burying the little monster in this muddy field would be the best possible outcome for everyone involved.
Whipping him suddenly felt like too light a punishment.
But before Carl could come to a decision, everything changed.
When Joffrey realized neither his mother's status nor his Kingsguard protector could save him—when he saw in Carl's eyes the cold, unrestrained resolve to continue—the brat finally understood fear. Real fear. Not the childish fright he feigned to manipulate others, but true, bone-deep terror.
The once-defiant prince collapsed completely.
His body shook uncontrollably. His expensive clothes were soaked in mud and worse. Tears streamed down his flushed cheeks as he scrambled forward on hands and knees, finally losing every shred of his royal dignity.
He latched onto Carl's trouser leg with trembling fingers and sobbed with all the desperation of a man drowning in an ocean of his own making.
"P-Please! Please don't kill me! Don't kill me!"
His voice cracked painfully, his breath hitching in ragged gasps as he spoke.
"I—I can give you anything! Anything you want!"
He clung tighter, as though gripping Carl's clothes could anchor him to life.
"The Lannisters… we are very wealthy!" he cried, words tumbling out fast and frantic. "I can make my father knight you! No—no, he can make you a noble! A lord with lands and a castle! Gold—lots of gold! The Lannisters have mountains of gold!"
He continued babbling, piling promises one on top of another—like a drowning man throwing ropes hoping one might catch.
Carl simply stared down at him, expression flat, eyes cold, unmoved by the desperate mountain of bribes being thrown at his feet.
Seeing no reaction, Joffrey lifted his head cautiously, his face swollen from crying. The whip still hung frozen in Carl's hand, and that small detail gave the prince delusional hope. If Carl wasn't striking, maybe—just maybe—he was listening.
That hope emboldened him.
"Karl Stone!" he cried, leaning forward as he knelt in the dirt. "Whatever you want, we can give it to you! Anything you desire!"
He licked his dry lips nervously before adding the most outrageous claim yet:
"A-Actually… you are my brother! My real brother! You're the king's son too!"
Carl raised an eyebrow.
Ah. So Cersei had told the brat something she shouldn't have.
"I can get my father to revoke your bastard status!" Joffrey shouted, desperate to win Carl over. "He can acknowledge you publicly! Make you legitimate!"
"And then—then he can name you prince! A real Baratheon! Not a bastard! You can be the king's lawful son!"
He swallowed hard, voice trembling.
"You can even inherit the throne! I—I will give up my right! I swear it! I'll name you heir!"
His words were wild, reckless, and filled with lies he had neither the authority nor courage to uphold. But Joffrey was far past the point of dignity or consistency. He was bargaining with his life, offering anything—everything—to stay alive.
Tears streamed anew down his face, washing tracks through the dirt as he bowed until his forehead nearly touched the mud.
"As long as you don't kill me… I'll do anything! Anything at all!"
His voice was small. Broken. Hysterical.
His words were the last cries of a cornered animal.
Carl watched him in silence.
The brat lay before him in mud and filth, stripped of every inch of royal arrogance. A fallen prince, shriveled into something barely human—a worm writhing for survival.
And Joffrey mistook Carl's silence for consideration.
Hope flickered in his red, tear-filled eyes.
But then Carl smiled faintly.
He shook his head slowly.
"Your promises," Carl said calmly, "aren't even as reliable as a donkey's fart after eating too much hay."
He tilted his head.
"At least the donkey's fart is guaranteed to stink."
Joffrey froze, his fragile hope crumbling instantly.
"But Prince Joffrey," Carl said lightly, "there's no need to rush."
His smile widened just enough to be unsettling.
"Because everything you just mentioned… I can obtain through my own methods."
He leaned down, lifting Joffrey's chin with two fingers.
"And if I obtain it myself, that means it truly belongs to me—not because someone tossed scraps my way out of fear or desperation."
His voice lowered to a whisper, each word deliberate.
"I take what I want. I don't beg for it."
Carl released him and stood, towering over the trembling boy.
"But before that," he said, flexing the hand holding the whip, "I still have some work to finish."
He flicked his wrist.
The whip rose once more.
Then it came down with a crack that split the air like thunder.
Joffrey's scream tore through the muddy field.
Carl didn't use brute strength. He didn't need to. Inflicting pain wasn't about power; it was about precision. A blade wounds deeply, but a whip—when wielded correctly—could create agony with nothing but the slightest kiss against the skin.
So he struck, again and again, each blow perfectly measured.
And when Joffrey's cries began to quiet, when his body trembled weakly on the ground, Carl raised a hand. A faint emerald glow shimmered at his fingertips.
Minor Healing.
The spell sank into Joffrey's welt-covered body, knitting torn skin, soothing bruises, restoring him just enough.
Enough to ensure he could feel everything again.
Enough to make sure the lesson continued.
He had mana to spare. And time—plenty of time before he needed to return.
"I will get what I want myself," Carl murmured, almost as if speaking to the world rather than Joffrey. "Not from begging, bribery, or worthless promises."
The whip cracked again.
Joffrey buckled, writhing in the mud, his screams turning hoarse.
Carl watched him with a relaxed, almost serene expression. But deep within his eyes, something sharp and dangerous flickered.
A future forming.
A path unfolding.
And Joffrey—broken, terrified, and powerless—was merely the first step.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)