As Carl approached the entrance of the inn, weaving through the curious bystanders and the king's retinue, his eyes finally landed on Robert. The King of the Iron Throne stood there like a mountain among men—broad, imposing, and impossible to miss. But what startled Carl was how quickly Robert noticed him in return.
Their gazes met instantly, as if the bustling noise around them had been momentarily silenced.
Before Carl could even draw closer, he heard his own name being blasted across the courtyard in Robert's unmistakably loud, booming voice. It echoed like the roar of a hunting horn.
The man who technically ruled the Seven Kingdoms—though his personality was hardly kingly—seemed even less inclined than usual to uphold any manner of etiquette. After calling out Carl's name with the enthusiasm of a drunken companion rather than a monarch, Robert Baratheon I strode toward him with heavy steps that shook the ground.
His immense figure cut a path through the crowd with sheer momentum, and the people around him instinctively stepped aside.
Seeing the king approaching, the group following Carl stopped immediately without needing a command. Jaime Lannister, gleaming in his golden armor, hurriedly bowed with the perfect posture of a Kingsguard. He opened his mouth to give a customary report.
But Robert didn't even spare him a glance.
He brushed past Jaime as if the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard were just another decorative statue standing by the roadside. Not a flicker of attention, not a response—nothing. Jaime's words died in his throat, and his bow hung awkwardly in the air.
Even while ignoring the Kingsguard, Robert strode with unwavering focus straight toward the young man who had captured his attention.
Carl watched the king approach with a mixture of confusion and unease. The expression on Robert's face wasn't clear—firm, quiet, unreadable. Not a smile, not anger, not even the usual lazy amusement the king wore when indulging in wine or jokes. His eyes looked strangely serious.
Why does he look like that?
What is he thinking?
Carl lowered his gaze slightly, pondering what this unexpected expression might mean. Robert, silent and stern-faced, was far too difficult to read. It left Carl completely uncertain about his intentions.
Yet Carl was overthinking it.
Because when Robert finally reached him, the king didn't speak immediately. Instead, he simply stopped in front of Carl and stared at him—openly, thoroughly, almost incredulously—as if taking in every detail of the young man before him.
He looked Carl up and down, eyes widening slightly with each passing second.
Carl, who was now slightly taller than Robert, stood calmly under the man's scrutiny. The sudden silence made the moment even more tense.
Slowly, astonishment surfaced in Robert's eyes.
For the first time in many years, Robert Baratheon was seriously looking at his grown illegitimate son—not as a passing thought or a forgotten memory, but as a man standing right before him.
A thought suddenly burst into Robert's mind, completely unbidden and impossible to ignore.
Seven hells… he looks exactly like me when I was young!
No wonder he's my son!
The realization hit him with such unexpected force that the seriousness on his face faltered. His stern expression cracked, and almost instantly, the shift in his mood became impossible to hide.
Without warning, Robert threw his head back and let out a booming, wholehearted laugh that burst from the depth of his chest. The kind of laugh that could shake rafters, startle soldiers, and make stable boys drop their tools.
Carl blinked, stunned by the sudden shift.
Before he could react, Robert raised his thick, meaty arm and slapped it hard against Carl's upper arm. The impact was powerful enough to make Carl's muscles tremble.
Carl, who a moment ago had been planning how to subtly probe Robert's intentions, found his thoughts scattered by the brutal friendliness of the gesture. The carefully prepared words he had arranged in his mind evaporated instantly, leaving him momentarily speechless.
His daily interactions with Robert had been distant, almost purely transactional. Carl behaved like a hired knight with good fortune—never overstepping, never revealing what he truly knew. He acted the part of a loyal servant, not a son.
There had always been a quiet wall between them.
A wall built from absence.
From silence.
From forgotten years.
Carl's earliest memories of Robert were warm: the time when Robert wasn't yet consumed by wine, by weight, by the empty burdens of the throne. In those faint memories, Robert had embraced him, lifted him into the air, laughed with him, genuinely doted on him.
But those days were long gone.
Perhaps Robert had forgotten them.
Perhaps they had meant little to him.
Perhaps to a king who sowed bastards across half of Westeros, one child was just another drop in the sea.
Carl never knew which.
Robert, oblivious to Carl's internal conflict, was swept away by his own tide of recollections. Looking at this young man—broad-shouldered, tall, confident—his thoughts drifted back over the years.
This boy had been his first child. The first one he had held. The first he had considered taking to King's Landing to raise himself—though that plan had fallen apart. But he remembered those moments, even after the weight of a kingdom had buried many softer memories.
When Robert learned that Carl had left the Eyrie alone and traveled to King's Landing to forge his own life, he had begun keeping quiet tabs on him. Jon Arryn, his Hand and foster father, had sent him reports—about Carl's struggles, his six months surviving in the capital, his subsequent adventures across the Narrow Sea.
Robert had even heard the outrageous, half-legendary tales Carl left behind in the brothels Robert himself frequented. He had seen Carl fight, seen him survive, seen him prove himself.
The memories made Robert grin so broadly his teeth nearly fell out.
More than once, Robert had drunkenly complained to Jon Arryn about how jealous he was of Carl's free, wandering life—how Carl lived like a true warrior, not a king chained to a throne he hated.
Jon Arryn, patient as always, would endure these drunken rants with a weary sigh.
But Jon Arryn was gone now.
Looking at Carl brought back those memories of Jon Arryn—the man who had guided him, scolded him, raised him. The man who had once suggested caring more deeply for this bastard boy.
Now, with that familiar young face before him, memories of himself and Jon Arryn intertwined with a strange, heavy nostalgia.
The laughter faded from Robert's lips, replaced by a quiet sigh. Grief flickered in his eyes.
Recently, with Jon Arryn's death fresh in his heart, Robert felt an unfamiliar desire to connect with Carl. Carl and Jon Arryn both held pieces of the past—pieces of a time when Robert had been happier, freer, less alone.
It felt like three generations tied together by coincidence.
But recent weeks had been miserable. Cersei had been behaving strangely—picking fights, stirring trouble, using Carl's name to provoke him. Combined with the burdens of the crown and a cascade of political frustrations, Robert's anger had been swelling like an overfilled bladder ready to burst.
Yet all of that simmering frustration vanished the moment Carl arrived under the pretext of the king's invitation.
The moment Robert laid eyes on him, the misery of the past days evaporated like mist under sunlight.
Which was why he had laughed so explosively—why his mood had shifted so dramatically the instant he recognized the boy.
Carl's astonishment lasted only a moment. He quickly regained composure, and following proper etiquette, he bowed deeply and dropped to one knee.
"Greetings, Your Majesty the King," Carl declared formally. "May the glory of the Seven Gods shine upon you forever."
But before Carl could even complete the bow, Robert let out a disgusted grunt and seized him by the arm.
He pulled Carl back to his feet with surprising swiftness.
"I hate all this damned etiquette," Robert grumbled. "And I don't believe in the blasted Seven either… Bah! Disgusting!"
He nearly blurted out several vulgar curses but managed to clamp his jaw shut just in time. After swallowing the words, he changed the subject with a deftness far too practiced.
"Anyway—good work, kid!"
A genuine smile stretched across Robert's face as he slapped Carl's arm again.
"Joffrey is with the maester now. Probably nothing worse than a scare! The Queen's tending to him, so I'm the one who gets to thank you properly!"
Before Carl could reply, Robert grabbed his arm with surprising familiarity and began pulling him toward the entrance of the inn.
"Come on, let's drink! I brought plenty of good wine this time!"
Robert's outgoing nature instantly dominated the interaction. Once he saw Carl, he simply took control of the situation, dragging him forward as though they were old comrades reunited after a long campaign.
No distance.
No hesitation.
Just pure, overwhelming Robert Baratheon energy.
Carl, realizing that Robert had stopped him from bowing and seemed determined to close the gap between them, felt a quiet sense of relief. It was unexpected—but welcome.
Still, Carl wasn't sure how to respond to everything Robert had said. The king's sudden warmth threw him off balance.
But Robert wasn't giving him time to think.
With the king's hand clamped around his arm, Carl instinctively followed him inside the inn.
And so, just like that, the two of them disappeared together into the lively tavern.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)