In Westeros, nobles fathering illegitimate children was hardly unusual. Such children—though born outside the bounds of marriage—were still considered the noble's responsibility. At the very least, their fathers were expected to ensure they grew up healthy and without the risk of starvation or abuse. It was a matter of duty, reputation, and the unspoken rules that governed the upper classes.
This was the very reason Karl's mother could completely abandon him without hesitation. She had remarried long ago, leaving Karl behind in the Eyrie to fend for himself, yet she never feared for his survival. The nobility's system of responsibility ensured that even unwanted children would not simply be left to die in a ditch. And so Karl grew up safely, though not necessarily happily, alone in that towering stronghold.
But there was a subtle cruelty hidden beneath this system. In many cases, the father of an illegitimate child never admitted the connection. These children were not brought into their father's household. They were not granted their father's name. Their parentage often remained a quiet, unspoken truth, known by some, avoided by others, and deliberately obscured by the noble himself. The child grew up outside the warmth of the family hearth, and the father's life went on untouched.
This, more than anything, became the standard practice among Westerosi nobles.
Yet there existed another path—one far rarer, yet not unheard of. In these unusual circumstances, the nobleman did the unthinkable: he openly acknowledged his illegitimate child, brought him into his own home, and raised him alongside his legitimate heirs. It was a bold act, one fraught with political and domestic complications.
Jon Snow was a clear example. Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, returned from war with the boy at his side and raised him within Winterfell's walls. But such generosity came at a price—especially for the boy.
As Tyrion had told Karl earlier that day, there was a hidden cruelty in such acts of mercy. For when a man brought home the living reminder of his infidelity, the wife of that household was under no obligation to treat the child kindly. In fact, she had the full right to harbor resentment, to look upon the bastard with cold eyes, and to let her displeasure fall upon him in ways subtle and overt.
Thus, Jon Snow grew up beneath Catelyn Tully's icy gaze—resented, distrusted, silently punished—while Eddard Stark, honorable as he was, could only avert his eyes and pretend not to see. Catelyn suffered the humiliation in silence, and Jon endured her bitterness without reprieve. It was a life half-lived in the shadows of Winterfell's halls.
To be born a bastard in Westeros was, without exaggeration, to be born into awkwardness and contempt. Their social status was meager, their reputations stained by stereotypes whispered across taverns and noble courts alike. Bastards were said to be inherently greedy, treacherous, and hypocritical—offspring of lust and deceit. There was even an old saying: "Bastards grow up too fast; their blood runs crooked, with desire and betrayal."
Even the children of lowborn parents—if born outside marriage—were condemned with the same label. Bastard. Mixed blood. Illegitimate. The word alone carried the weight of judgment.
There was, however, one slightly more tolerable scenario.
If both parents of the illegitimate child were nobles, the child's status—while still tainted—was far less shameful. Among such children, none were more famous than Edric Storm. His mother, Delena Florent, was a noblewoman of a respected house, niece to Lord Alester Florent. Because both parents held noble blood and because Robert Baratheon had at least a hint of conscience, the boy was acknowledged rather than ignored. Though Robert did not bring him to court, he allowed him to live comfortably at Storm's End under proper care.
Compared to others, this was already a fortunate fate.
Most bastards, however, faced an even harsher truth—the matter of inheritance.
According to both the laws and ancient customs of Westeros, a bastard possessed virtually no inheritance rights. Unless a nobleman died without legitimate heirs or even distant relatives, illegitimate children were entirely cut off from claims to family lands, titles, or fortunes.
This, more than anything else, cemented their reputation as grasping and untrustworthy. People believed bastards must always hunger for the legacy denied to them—that envy and frustration twisted their hearts until they became creatures of ambition and deceit. Desire, after all, could turn anyone into a monster, and desire was all a bastard was presumed to have.
Yet there existed a rare, powerful exception—royal legitimization.
If a king declared a bastard to be legitimate, the stain of their birth vanished. They could inherit, hold titles, and stand equal to any trueborn child. The royal will transformed them entirely.
Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen had once legitimized her half-brothers Adam and Alyn of Hull, allowing them to inherit from Lord Corlys Velaryon. And before his death, King Aegon IV had legitimized many of his bastards—actions that would lead, decades later, to bloody rebellions.
But such cases were extraordinary. Most nobles preferred simply to acknowledge their bastards rather than legitimize them.
Eddard Stark did this with Jon Snow—recognizing him as a Stark, yet denying him the right to inherit. Thus Jon kept the surname "Snow," marking him forever as a bastard of the North.
Then there were the countless others—hidden, unacknowledged, nameless. Gendry, for instance, knew nothing of his father's identity until much later.
And then there was Karl Stone.
Despite his mother's noble origins, King Robert had never formally acknowledged Karl, unlike his other known bastard in the Stormlands. Karl existed in an uncomfortable middle ground—known to a few, ignored by many, and unrecognized by the realm.
Which was precisely why, in this moment, a small circle of onlookers could not help whispering among themselves. After everything that had just happened, could Karl's fate finally change?
Would King Robert acknowledge him now?
Would he legitimize him?
Would he knight him on the spot for the deed he had accomplished?
After all, saving the life of the heir to the Iron Throne—the first in line to succession—was not a small feat. It was the kind of heroic act that demanded reward. And in Westeros, where lineage and succession meant everything, a king who rewarded too lightly risked insulting not only the rescuer, but also the very stability of his own rule. His advisors would surely pressure him into giving something meaningful.
Regardless of whether anyone knew the truth about Karl's parentage, everyone present understood one thing: this young man was about to be rewarded handsomely.
For a commoner—or even a half-acknowledged noble son—to rise quickly, martial prowess combined with opportunity was the surest path. And opportunity had just fallen into Karl's hands like a gift from the gods themselves.
Hearing the murmured speculation all around him, Karl did not join the chatter. Instead, he simply waved at the curious onlookers and turned back to his task. Calmly, he bent down and untied the ropes binding the horses that had dragged the massive bison. His expression remained composed, relaxed even.
But the moment he lowered his head—hidden from the crowd—his eyes gleamed with a deep, unreadable meaning. Something cold. Something calculating. Something no one else could see.
He continued working, lost in his thoughts, when suddenly a voice—far more excited than even the gossiping onlookers—shoved its way toward him.
"Boss! Hehe~!"
Karl didn't bother turning. The moment he heard that ridiculous, lewd giggle, he knew exactly who it was.
"Do you know," Karl said lazily, "that when you laugh, it sounds like the toilet at Lucy's brothel that can't be shut properly…?"
"..."
Kexi—grinning wide with his single missing front tooth—froze in confusion. Clearly, he did not understand what insult was being hurled his way.
Karl's lips twitched. Why did he bother? This man, despite being witty in everyday situations, was utterly hopeless when it came to understanding metaphors. With a sigh, Karl reached out, pinched Kexi's cheeks, and forcibly closed his gaping mouth before the idiot's grin could get any wider.
"In other words," Karl said in a perfectly flat voice, "your laugh leaks air… and smells like a latrine."
Kexi's eyes widened in dawning comprehension, and the moment he understood he was being mocked, he burst into even louder laughter—though his mouth was still squashed tightly between Karl's fingers.
Karl ignored him and glanced past his hopeless subordinate at the rest of his men. They had all rushed over after hearing the rumor, each face bright with excitement and pride.
He let his own smile fade. Calmly, he turned to the enormous bison lying before him and drew the longsword at his waist. The sunlight glinted off the blade in a thin, sharp line.
"By the way," Karl said slowly, "has King Robert returned?"
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