Surrounded by onlookers, under the watchful eyes of everyone, a tall and strikingly handsome man was being knighted by the king. At that moment, the atmosphere around the Crossroads Inn was solemn, serene, and dignified. All eyes were drawn to Sir Carl Stone, who slowly rose from one knee after receiving the sacred ceremony of knighthood.
Within those gazes, however, lay far more than admiration. There was envy, awe, and deep yearning.
Because in Westeros, a man is born a commoner and likely dies a commoner. The kingdom holds no clear laws or systems for ordinary people to rise into nobility. No matter how gifted a craftsman may be or how extraordinary one's talents are, if one is born mere smallfolk, one usually remains so until the grave.
Of course, that rule is not absolute. Rarely, commoners may rise—if they attract a lord's attention, perform great deeds, or prove undeniable worth. Only then might a knighthood, or even the beginning of true rank, be bestowed.
But for the rest, climbing the social heavens is as difficult as reaching the Seven themselves.
Thus, just as His Grace finished the conferral of knighthood and prepared to celebrate the moment with pride and warmth, a sudden shrill voice slashed through the air like a rusty blade.
A piercing curse rang out from the edge of the crowd.
It carried with it a bone-deep sense of hostility and unease.
King Robert Baratheon, hearing the familiar venom in that voice, frowned sharply and turned. When his eyes landed on the source, anger immediately flared across his face.
The crowd—who had moments ago been smiling, whispering, and envying Carl—fell silent in shock at the sudden shrieking interruption. Murmurs rippled briefly and then died as people instinctively turned toward the disturbance.
Once they saw who had arrived, their expressions shifted from confusion to tense respect. Almost subconsciously, the crowd parted to make way.
For the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had arrived—furious, blazing, and storming forward with her skirts lifted, flanked by three Kingsguard and nearly twenty Lannister men-at-arms. Cersei Lannister's approach carried the oppressive momentum of a charging lioness.
Even if Robert Baratheon possessed the best temper—which he absolutely did not—her display would have provoked him. And given his famously violent nature, her blatant challenge ignited him like wildfire.
Like a cat stung by a scorpion, the king sprang to his feet and stepped forward, blocking her path.
His eyes were murderous.
"Woman, are you testing my patience?!"
Robert's massive hand tightened around the hilt of the longsword he had only moments ago bestowed upon Carl. His stance, his glare, everything about him suggested he was seconds away from striking the woman who dared cause such chaos during his celebration.
Sensing danger, Jaime Lannister moved instantly. He stepped between king and queen, placing himself in the direct path of Robert's rising fury.
But the moment Jaime intervened, Robert's expression darkened even further. He raised the blade, the tip hovering dangerously close to Jaime's throat.
"Kingslayer," Robert growled, "are you planning to shed the blood of another king you swore to protect?"
The tension in his voice was so taut that a single wrong word would have drawn blood.
Jaime could smell the alcohol radiating from Robert. Still, he did not retreat. He lifted both hands placatingly.
"Your Majesty, please—this isn't what you think—"
But Robert pressed the blade closer, silencing him instantly.
"Not what it looks like?" Robert scoffed. "If I were blind and drunk beyond sense, perhaps I would take your advice!"
He leaned in, voice low and cutting.
"But perhaps that is when you would finally become true Captain of the Kingsguard. Or perhaps a certain lion is already too eager to leap."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. No one had expected the king to brandish a sword against the queen's twin brother—or that the royal couple would all but declare war on each other in public.
Some among the crowd—those with quicker minds—had already concluded that the queen's earlier curses must be the cause of this eruption.
And inevitably, their gazes drifted toward the newly knighted illegitimate son at the center of the commotion.
Carl Stone stood expressionless, almost relaxed, watching the chaos unfold with a faintly amused tilt of his head.
Meanwhile, Jaime Lannister looked deeply troubled. He was certain Cersei was about to turn this into something far worse than necessary. He had only come from delivering the king's message of Carl's reward. After that, knowing Robert intended to drink and feast with Carl, Jaime chose to visit Joffrey.
And that, he now realized, had been a mistake.
Because after Joffrey received examination from the maesters and was cleared except for shock, after he was bathed, wrapped, and taken to rest—he had burst into hysterical tears upon seeing his mother.
Then came the accusations.
Accusations so embellished, so absurd, and so utterly impossible that even Myrcella, Tommen, Tyrion, and Jaime stared at him in utter confusion.
In Joffrey's frantic, sobbing story, Carl Stone was no savior. He was reinvented into some monstrous tormentor—a demon, a warlock, a villain who had tortured him and pushed him into the river.
Not one person believed him.
Not even Tommen, who was only seven.
The tale simply made no sense.
Jaime, Tyrion, and the children all assumed Joffrey was hallucinating from fright.
But Cersei was not "everyone."
The moment she heard her precious son's trembling accusations—true or false, believable or not—her reason snapped. Rage consumed her. Fear stoked it. And her desire for vengeance overshadowed everything else.
Ignoring Jaime. Ignoring Tyrion. Ignoring even common sense.
Cersei Lannister stormed out of the palace, gathered guards, and declared she would kill Carl Stone.
And the Kingsguard assigned to Joffrey—Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount—did not protest. They bowed deeply, placed hands over hearts, and swore:
"At your command, Your Majesty."
Now, back at the inn, Cersei glared at her husband's sword as though it were meaningless. She brushed past him as though brushing aside an insect.
Her eyes locked onto Carl Stone.
Venomous. Burning. Murderous.
If gazes could become blades, Carl would already have been carved apart under hers.
She ignored the sword at Jaime's throat, ignored Robert's fury, and fixed her wrath on the newly knighted bastard.
And then she spoke.
"Robert, do you know how Joffrey fell into the river?"
Her tone was icy. Her eyes never left Carl. But her words were directed at Robert.
The crowd went still.
Robert frowned, unease prickling beneath his drunkenness.
Jaime tried desperately to speak.
"Cersei, listen—"
But she raised her voice, shutting him down instantly.
"Do you know," she spat, "that your son—your heir—was almost killed by this low-born, wicked bastard?"
Gasps.
"But what did you do?" she hissed. "You knighted the man who nearly murdered your child!"
Robert froze.
The entire inn fell into stunned silence.
As the last rays of sunlight were devoured by night, the campfires cast flickering light across Cersei's face—twisted, furious, fevered.
No one dared speak.
Cersei's finger trembled as she pointed directly at Carl's eyes.
"You knighted a despicable villain," she snarled. "A bastard is always a bastard. A maggot wallowing in filth! Greed, lies, and malice are woven into his very blood!"
Her voice rose, shaking with rage.
"And now—now that bastard seeks to kill Joffrey! To torment him where no one sees, then deceive everyone with illusions and lies!"
Her tone grew wild, frenzied.
"He will wear down our vigilance! He will kill Joffrey—kill Tommen—kill Myrcella—and then take their place!"
She spat each word like poison.
The crowd's breath caught.
People stared, unblinking, at Carl Stone.
And at the queen who had just declared him a murderous, power-hungry bastard-son of the king.
Even Robert was stunned.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Simply stunned.
Carl Stone… Robert's bastard?
Whispers surged. Shock rippled.
Some people wondered if they were dreaming.
And then—
Just as the suffocating silence peaked—
A voice, panting lightly yet dripping with dry humor, drifted into the scene:
"If the Seven truly have eyes… they must have blinked when creating me."
"So, is there no one here who can pity a poor dwarf?"
"At least grant the dwarf a little patience while walking here?"
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)