"Is it Amory Lorch?!"
The name burst out almost the moment the cook finished speaking.
All eyes turned at once.
Jon Snow stood rigid among them, his dark brows drawn together, disbelief and anger flashing across his face. The reaction had been instinctive—unfiltered. Only after he realized that everyone was staring at him did the indignation drain away, replaced by an awkward flush.
"I… I heard the story before," he added quickly. "Father's guards used to talk about it. Robb and I overheard them once. They thought we weren't listening."
Jon was still young—too young to lie convincingly. The truth clung to him too easily.
As he spoke, he turned to look at the cook standing before them. Her face was mottled with bruises, one eye swollen nearly shut, her lips split and crusted with dried blood. Old scars crisscrossed her arms and neck. The pain she had endured was etched into her very skin.
Jon swallowed, then continued.
"They said the bodies of Princess Elia of Dorne and her children—Aegon and Rhaenys—were wrapped in red cloaks and placed beneath the Iron Throne."
His voice grew tighter.
"They were presented as proof of Tywin Lannister's loyalty to King Robert."
The room fell silent.
"When Father arrived in King's Landing," Jon went on, "he found Jaime Lannister sitting on the Iron Throne… and Aerys Targaryen lying dead beneath it."
He paused.
"Father argued with King Robert after that. They said it was a terrible argument. Then Father marched south to finish the last battles alone."
His voice softened.
"And when he returned… he brought me back to Winterfell."
There was no need to explain further. The implication lingered.
Karl Stone and the others who already knew the history remained silent. Timett and the clansmen, unfamiliar with the politics of southern courts, merely listened without expression.
In the shadows, Varys quietly rose and moved to stand near the wall, his slippered feet making no sound.
Bronn was the only one who stepped forward. He clapped a hand on Jon's shoulder and squeezed gently, offering a silent comfort.
Karl's voice finally broke the silence, low and steady.
"Where are they now?"
His face was hidden in the flicker of candlelight. Only his voice carried weight—deep, calm, unhurried.
The cook lowered her head.
"Some soldiers guard the gates of the Red Keep," she said carefully. "As for Ser Kevan Lannister and the others… they are in the King's Hall."
Karl frowned faintly.
"They didn't flee?"
The cook shook her head. "No, my lord."
That detail had troubled Karl from the beginning. Kevan Lannister was no fool. If escape had been possible, he would have taken it. The fact that he had chosen to remain inside the Red Keep suggested either supreme confidence—or a deeper plan.
Karl rose slowly from his stool.
The cook startled as his towering figure stepped forward into clearer light. Up close, he seemed even larger—broad-shouldered, powerful, radiating an almost primal presence. For a brief moment, she recoiled instinctively and stumbled back.
But Karl reached out and caught her before she fell.
His grip was steady but gentle.
"I will report your loyalty and bravery to the King and the Hand," he said. "You have served the realm well."
Her bruised face lifted slightly, stunned.
"But first," he added, "you must tend to your injuries."
From his belt, he drew a small glass vial filled with crimson liquid. Even in dim light, it gleamed faintly.
"This is a potent healing draught," he said. "It will help you."
She stared at it, uncertain, too afraid to accept such generosity.
Varys cleared his throat softly.
"This is Ser Karl Stone," the eunuch said smoothly. "The King's trueborn eldest son. Warden of the East, as granted by His Grace himself."
Karl did not contradict him. He simply placed the vial firmly into the woman's trembling hands.
"Drink it," he said quietly.
Then he turned and walked toward the door.
The clansmen followed immediately, silent and lethal as shadows.
Jon lingered a moment longer.
"You should take it soon," he told the cook gently. "I've used it before. It works."
He glanced briefly at Varys before hurrying after Karl.
Varys offered the woman a small, reassuring smile—then turned and followed as well.
The corridor outside was dimly lit, torches hissing softly against stone walls.
Varys hurried to keep pace with Karl's long strides.
"Ser Karl," he said between quick breaths, "Amory Lorch is short and stout. Pale face, piggish eyes. Quite distinctive."
Karl cast him a sideways glance.
"Good," he said coolly. "I suspect many in King's Landing would like to recognize him."
They reached a bend in the corridor.
Without warning, Karl's hand flashed.
A sword gleamed.
A torch mounted on the wall clattered loose—caught instantly in his hand. Before anyone understood what was happening, Karl hurled it with terrifying force.
The flame streaked through darkness like a falling star.
A heartbeat later—
Thud.
A distant shape collapsed from atop a high wall.
The torch, still burning, protruded from the throat of a Lannister sentry. His body hit the stone below with a heavy, lifeless crash.
No cry. No warning.
Just death.
The clansmen exchanged glances. Even they were impressed.
Karl turned calmly to Varys.
"What lies in that direction?"
Varys squinted upward.
"That would be the Grand Maester's tower. The rookery. Ravens are kept there."
Karl's eyes lingered on flickering silhouettes still visible in a high window.
"I see," he murmured.
He suspected something—but that could wait.
"First, we find Kevan Lannister."
They moved swiftly toward the Throne Room.
The bronze oak doors stood ajar. Firelight spilled into the corridor. Raised voices echoed faintly within.
As they approached, steel clashed briefly—then silence fell.
Karl's blade remained sheathed. The clansmen handled the sentries along the way with ruthless efficiency.
When Karl stepped across the threshold into the King's Hall, only a handful of figures remained inside.
The long carpet stretched toward the Iron Throne, darkened in places by spreading blood.
Six armored Lannister guards lay dying or dead.
Four others stood trembling.
Grand Maester Pycelle quivered like a leaf, his chain rattling faintly.
Petyr Baelish stood pale, calculating eyes darting.
Amory Lorch shifted uneasily.
And Kevan Lannister stood firm.
He frowned as Karl entered.
"Ser Karl Stone," Kevan said evenly. "How did you get inside?"
Karl did not answer.
Instead, Kevan's gaze flicked to Varys behind him.
Understanding dawned.
A bitter smile touched Kevan's lips.
"Lord Varys," he said almost pleasantly. "I have been looking for you."
Varys bowed slightly.
"I imagine," he replied smoothly, "that you intended to decorate the walls with my head."
Kevan's smile widened faintly.
"The thought crossed my mind."
The candor startled even Pycelle.
Varys chuckled softly.
"Then I am grateful I moved quickly."
He glanced toward Littlefinger and Pycelle.
"What interests me," Varys continued lightly, "is why I was your priority. Surely I am but a humble eunuch."
Littlefinger stiffened immediately.
"What do you mean by that?" he snapped. "Are you accusing us?"
His voice rose sharply.
"You abandoned your duties and fled! We were left to fend for ourselves. I will see you answer for that before the King!"
Karl's patience snapped.
"Enough."
The word cracked through the hall like a whip.
Every head turned toward him.
Karl stepped forward at last, boots echoing across stone.
His presence alone seemed to shrink the room.
Kevan studied him calmly.
"You move boldly for a bastard," Kevan remarked.
Karl's gaze hardened.
"I move as a son of the King."
Silence followed.
Amory Lorch shifted again, sweat beading along his brow.
Karl's eyes found him.
Recognition flared coldly.
Heartbreak lingered in the air—not only for the murdered children of years past, but for the rot within the realm itself.
Karl's voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
"We will settle accounts."
The Iron Throne loomed behind them, silent witness to yet another reckoning.
And this time—
There would be no mercy.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)