"Wake up, Dwarf."
The morning sun had barely risen over King's Landing when a loud voice shattered the silence of Tyrion Lannister's chambers.
"Today, we're forging armor worthy of the most dazzling and handsome man in the capital… and visiting a little friend of mine."
Before Tyrion could even process what was happening, Duke Karl El had already dragged him out of bed.
Tyrion groaned, his head pounding from last night's drinking.
"You truly are a cruel man," he muttered. "Even the gods grant mercy after a feast."
Karl ignored the complaint entirely.
After a quick and rather rough wash, Tyrion was pushed out the door, still half-dazed.
In the courtyard of the Red Keep, preparations were already complete.
Karl's prized mount, Fox, stood proudly, its red-brown coat gleaming in the morning light. Holding its reins was none other than Samwell Tarly, who looked noticeably thinner than before.
Originally, such duties had belonged to Jon Snow. However, ever since Jon had been knighted, the task had somehow fallen to Sam.
Standing nearby were three towering figures—the High Mountain Clan warriors: one-eyed Ti Mei, Qila, and Xia Ga.
Karl had specifically summoned them.
After all, if he was to host grand martial games in the near future, his warriors needed proper armor. He intended to turn the event into a spectacle—one that would cement his authority and spread his name across the Seven Kingdoms.
Bronn was there as well.
Though still technically a sellsword, he had proven his worth during the recent battles in King's Landing. Karl had taken a liking to him and was already considering granting him lands and a title in the West—once he had earned sufficient merit.
Bronn, for his part, had no intention of leaving.
He understood very well that following Karl El was his best chance to rise beyond his current station.
As for Karl's earlier companions, such as Hall and Kexi, they had already acquired their own armor.
As some of Karl's earliest followers, they had been richly rewarded. The war had filled their pockets with gold dragons, and they were now far wealthier than most common men could ever dream of.
Jon Snow, however, was absent.
Apparently, he had attended a dinner hosted by the Hand of the King the previous night and had yet to return.
Karl didn't bother asking further.
Jon lacked nothing now—not equipment, not status.
"Sam, you too."
Karl took Fox's reins from Sam and glanced at him thoughtfully.
"You'll have armor made as well."
Sam blinked in confusion, pointing at himself.
"Me?"
"If you want to prove yourself," Karl said calmly, "start by learning to stand your ground."
The words were simple, but the weight behind them was unmistakable.
Sam's face turned pale.
He immediately understood.
His father—Randyll Tarly—would soon arrive in King's Landing.
And when that happened, weakness would not be tolerated.
Tyrion, now somewhat sober, mounted a mare fitted with a specially designed saddle.
Watching Sam struggle awkwardly with his horse, Tyrion couldn't help but grin.
"Why aren't you thanking His Grace properly?" he teased.
Sam opened his mouth instinctively.
"Th-thank you, Lord Karl El—wait…"
He froze mid-sentence.
Something felt off.
"El?"
Sam frowned, his scholarly instincts kicking in.
"I don't recall ever encountering that surname… what does it mean?"
Tyrion chuckled, clearly amused.
"Don't strain yourself, little fat man. Even I don't know its meaning."
He glanced at Karl with a smirk.
"Because it doesn't have one—yet."
Karl said nothing.
But deep within, he knew the truth.
The meaning of "El" would not come from history.
It would be created.
Forged.
By him.
One day, the name would echo across Westeros and beyond. And when it did, people would give it meaning—just as they had done with Targaryen.
As the group prepared to depart, Karl's attention shifted briefly to Sam's mount.
Unlike the others, Sam had been given a sturdy draft horse rather than a warhorse.
It was slower, heavier—but stable.
Suitable.
Karl nodded slightly in approval.
Then, his gaze turned toward the stableman who had brought the horses.
The man was quick, efficient, and attentive.
A rare talent.
"Have you ever considered serving House El?" Karl asked suddenly.
The stableman froze.
He hadn't expected such a question.
"You are capable," Karl continued. "You would be of greater use to me."
The implication was clear.
This was an offer.
A life-changing one.
Without hesitation, the stableman dropped to his knees.
"It would be my honor, my lord!"
Karl smiled.
"What is your name?"
The man hesitated.
His expression turned awkward, almost embarrassed.
"M-my lord… perhaps you could grant me a new name instead."
Tyrion burst into laughter.
"Don't tell me your name is Karl as well!"
The stableman lowered his head further.
Karl chuckled.
"So it is fate, then."
He paused for a moment before speaking again.
"From this day forward, your name shall be Ferrari."
The newly named Ferrari beamed with joy, his face glowing with excitement.
Karl mounted Fox, turned, and rode out.
Behind him, congratulations poured in from the other servants.
Everyone understood—
Ferrari's life had just changed forever.
Karl rode at the front of the group, his attire drawing attention wherever he went.
He wore a black brocade robe with gold trim, accented by red silk. A crimson cloak draped over his shoulder, fluttering in the wind.
His presence was commanding.
This was his first public appearance as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West.
And he intended to make it unforgettable.
As they passed through the King's Gate and entered the city proper, the atmosphere changed dramatically.
The air grew foul.
The streets, crowded.
Karl wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"One day," he muttered, "I'll clean this entire city."
He glanced at the ground, avoiding certain… unpleasant hazards.
"And anyone caught dumping filth in the streets—I'll personally introduce them to it."
Tyrion rode up beside him.
"What are you grumbling about?"
Karl waved it off.
"Nothing important."
Then, after a brief pause, he asked,
"Sandor Clegane came to King's Landing with you, didn't he?"
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"The Hound?"
"Yes."
Tyrion nodded slowly.
"When he heard you killed his brother, he insisted on coming here. Nearly lost his mind over it."
Karl frowned slightly.
"And now?"
"He's in the dungeons," Tyrion admitted. "I… may have forgotten about him."
Karl stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"I want him."
Tyrion blinked.
"You what?"
"I want him to inherit House Clegane," Karl said calmly. "On one condition—he swears loyalty to me."
Tyrion frowned.
"That seems unnecessary. The Clegane name isn't exactly… admirable."
Karl smiled faintly.
"What do you think of him?"
Tyrion considered the question carefully.
Then he answered:
"Loyal."
He paused.
"More honorable than many knights."
Karl nodded.
"Exactly."
He continued,
"I've heard stories. His brother killed their family… even burned his face."
Tyrion's expression darkened.
"Yes."
"So now," Karl said, "I'll give him a choice."
"A future."
Karl's gaze shifted toward the horizon.
"And not just him."
"In the coming days, prepare a banquet."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed.
"For the western lords?"
Karl nodded.
"It's time they choose a side."
His tone was calm—
But absolute.
"I won't waste time waiting for them to recover, regroup, and scheme."
Tyrion fell silent.
Then, slowly—
He understood.
The West was broken.
Its strength shattered.
Its unity gone.
This—
Was the perfect moment.
A moment that would never come again.
Karl wasn't just consolidating power.
He was reshaping it.
Rebuilding it.
From the ground up.
Tyrion let out a quiet sigh.
"The change of the West… is inevitable," he murmured.
And those who failed to see it—
Would be swept aside.
Karl rode forward, his cloak billowing behind him.
A new house was rising.
A new order was forming.
And soon—
The entire West would kneel beneath the name…
El.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)