A strange silence fell across the feast after the bards finished their song praising Karl El.
Only moments earlier, the riverside celebration had been full of laughter, music, and wine. Nobles toasted loudly, servants hurried between tables, and the sounds of pipes and drums drifted into the evening air. Yet the final note of the song seemed to freeze everything.
No applause followed.
No cheerful remarks.
No laughter.
Instead, many guests exchanged uncertain glances.
At the high table, Eddard Stark frowned deeply, his face stern as he considered what had just happened. After a moment, he turned to look at Karl El.
Karl merely spread his hands innocently, as if to say he had nothing to do with it.
That simple gesture only made the moment stranger.
Nearby, Sansa Stark had been about to clap politely. Her hands paused halfway before slowly lowering again. She did not understand why such a grand and beautiful song had been met with discomfort rather than praise.
Beside her, Jeyne Poole nervously grabbed her hand.
Arya Stark opened her mouth to say something sharp, but Jon Snow gave her a warning glance and silenced her.
Then every eye in the camp turned toward one man.
Robert Baratheon.
The king seemed entirely unaware of the tension surrounding him.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded with drink, savoring the final melody as if it were the sweetest thing he had heard all year.
Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"Good!" he shouted. "Well sung!"
He slammed one great fist against the table, rattling cups and plates.
The bards immediately brightened.
If the king approved, then no one else dared object.
The silence broke like ice beneath a hammer. Conversation returned. Laughter rose again. Servants resumed pouring wine. Musicians began another tune.
The feast lived once more.
Karl calmly picked up another slice of roasted beef and continued eating as though nothing unusual had happened.
Sansa stole another glance at him, lips pursed, then returned to picking unhappily at her lemon cakes.
Among the king's brothers, Renly Baratheon chuckled lightly, amused by the entire affair.
Stannis Baratheon, however, remained as stern as carved stone.
He looked first at Robert, now laughing and drinking again.
Then at Renly, who was quietly speaking with Loras Tyrell.
Then at Karl El, whom he studied with cold, unreadable eyes.
Finally, Stannis turned toward Eddard Stark.
Perhaps Ned had already been watching him, for their gazes met at once.
Two severe men. Two guarded faces.
Neither revealed anything.
At last, Stannis gave the faintest nod, rose from the table, and left without a word.
He clearly had no taste for merriment.
Renly noticed everything.
He always noticed more than people assumed.
Seeing Stannis depart in silence, Renly exchanged a brief glance with Loras, then smiled to himself.
The time had come.
Some time later, when Robert had drunk even more deeply and his speech had grown slurred, Renly leaned toward him.
"Brother," he said pleasantly, "did I not promise you a gift earlier today?"
Robert blinked at him with watery eyes.
He seemed to struggle to remember whether such a conversation had ever happened.
At last he grunted.
"Then show it to me. Let's see what foolish trick you've brought."
Renly did not answer immediately.
Instead, he drew a small golden pendant from inside his cloak and placed it into the king's broad hand.
It was shaped like a blooming rose, delicately worked in gold.
Robert squinted at it.
"What is this?"
"A locket," Renly said. "Press here."
He touched a hidden clasp.
With a soft click, the golden petals opened.
Inside was a miniature portrait of a beautiful young woman.
Robert stared.
The drunken haze in his eyes faded slightly.
Before the king could speak, Renly said quietly:
"Brother… do you think she resembles Lyanna Stark?"
The name struck Robert harder than any blow.
The wine cup in his hand stopped midway to his lips.
"Lyanna…" he murmured.
For a moment, old memories stirred.
A wolf maid with wild blood.
A promise never fulfilled.
A grave he had never truly left behind.
Yet when Robert searched his memory for her face, it came only in fragments. Time had stolen the details, leaving pain behind.
So he looked at the portrait instead.
Perhaps she did resemble Lyanna.
Or perhaps he only wanted her to.
He stared in silence for a long while.
Eddard Stark, standing nearby, was equally confused.
He had heard Renly say Lyanna's name.
He had seen Robert fall quiet.
But he had not yet seen the portrait clearly enough to judge.
Still, he understood something else at once.
This was politics.
Not sentiment.
Why now?
Why this girl?
Why before so many watching eyes?
Ned already suspected the answer.
At last Robert spoke, still gazing at the image.
"Who is she?"
Renly's smile deepened.
"She is Margaery Tyrell, daughter of House Tyrell of Highgarden. Fifteen years old. Noble, beautiful, and of excellent blood."
Robert grunted.
"And why show her to me?"
Renly's tone remained smooth.
"If you wish it, she could become your queen."
Those words settled heavily over the table.
Then Renly turned toward Ned.
"What say you, Lord Hand?"
Eddard remained silent for several seconds.
He now understood fully.
House Tyrell sought influence.
Renly sought allies.
And both wished to replace Cersei Lannister.
At length, Ned answered carefully.
"Your Grace… if you must take a new queen, Lady Margaery would be a fine choice."
Then he added, more firmly:
"She could give you strong heirs."
Robert's face darkened slightly.
Even drunk, he was not witless.
He knew why Renly proposed this.
He knew why Ned supported it.
He knew Stannis had already raised concerns of succession.
He knew far more than people thought.
But he also knew the woman in the portrait was young, beautiful, and untouched by years of bitterness.
So instead of cursing them all, Robert snapped the locket shut.
"That is enough for tonight."
He shoved himself to his feet.
"We speak of this tomorrow."
He nearly fell at once.
A steward rushed forward to steady him.
Robert's pride flared hotter than his wine.
"Get your hands off me!"
He shoved the poor man backward.
"Do you think I'm drunk? Do you all take me for a fool?"
The camp fell silent again.
Ned sighed inwardly and stepped forward.
"I'll see to His Grace."
He took Robert's arm firmly.
"It grows late. Everyone should retire. Tomorrow we still have events to attend."
Renly rose with graceful ease.
"Take good care of my brother, Lord Hand. I'd rather he wake without a pounding skull."
"I shall have the maester prepare something," Ned replied dryly.
Renly only smiled.
Ned then turned to Catelyn Stark and his children.
"Take them back. I'll return later."
With that, he and Barristan Selmy hauled the king toward his pavilion like men dragging an overfed bear uphill.
Behind them came two more sworn brothers to help support Robert's immense weight.
As they walked, Barristan muttered:
"I believe His Grace requires new Kingsguard."
Ned gave a weary nod.
"That is your duty as Lord Commander."
Three white cloaks now stood vacant.
And all because of Karl El.
Half a year earlier he had been little more than an obscure sellsword bastard.
Now he was lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, founder of his own house, and one of the most talked-about men in the Seven Kingdoms.
Barristan almost smiled.
"After the games conclude, I will observe the young knights carefully."
"If needed," Ned said, "I may recommend some names."
Back at the feast, Renly turned to Karl El, who had also risen to depart.
Karl noticed the look and returned a calm, polite smile.
There was no hostility between them.
No friendship either.
Only mutual recognition.
Renly's plans had succeeded tonight. House Tyrell would be pleased, and Robert had not rejected the proposal outright.
Whatever happened tomorrow, seeds had been planted.
As Renly departed with Loras, he smiled more broadly at the thought of Stannis's sour expression.
Karl watched him go.
He understood everything that had occurred.
He could feel eyes following him from every direction.
He was a symbol now.
A threat to some.
An opportunity to others.
A weapon to many.
Sometimes, he thought, greatness was simply another word for being hunted.
With that, he turned and left.
Inside the king's tent, Ned and Barristan finally managed to wrestle Robert onto his bed.
Both men stood bent over, breathing heavily.
Robert lay sprawled like a felled bull.
Ned was just about to order a servant to fetch a maester when a deep laugh suddenly rolled through the tent.
Both men froze.
Slowly, they turned toward the bed.
Robert Baratheon was sitting upright.
His eyes were clear.
And he was no longer drunk at all.
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