After a long night of effort, Karl finally managed to sort through the newest changes within the mysterious game world. By the time he withdrew from it, dawn was already breaking across the horizon.
But when he returned to the military camp, he immediately sensed that something was wrong.
It was not the army itself. The soldiers were disciplined, the watchfires still burned, and the camp remained orderly. Yet standing outside Karl's command tent were two familiar figures—Samwell Tarly and Jon Snow.
Both men looked exhausted.
Their eyes were red with fatigue, and they seemed to be forcing themselves to remain alert. Each kept glancing around as though waiting for someone.
Karl frowned.
He stepped forward and asked at once, "What happened? Why haven't you gone to rest?"
"Lord Karl—" Samwell flinched when he heard Karl's voice.
Then relief appeared on his face.
"A raven arrived from King's Landing. Lord Tyrion said it was urgent. He ordered us to wait for you."
Karl's expression darkened.
"No matter how urgent it is, that does not explain why both of you are standing guard like sentries."
Then he asked sharply, "Do either of you know what the message says?"
As he walked toward the tent, Jon and Sam hurried after him.
Jon answered first.
"Only Lord Tyrion and the maester have read it. They refused to tell anyone else."
"He said the matter was so important that he had to speak to you the moment he saw you."
"And… they both looked troubled."
Karl's unease deepened.
Without another word, he quickened his pace and strode toward the entrance of his pavilion. He pulled aside the heavy flap and stepped inside.
The interior was brightly lit by several lamps.
At a table sat Tyrion Lannister and a young maester. The maester kept his head lowered, nervously picking at his nails.
Tyrion, meanwhile, was drinking cup after cup of wine as if trying to compensate for every goblet Karl had denied him during the march.
Around them stood four armored guards with swords drawn.
The atmosphere was heavy and silent.
Karl's heart sank.
Whatever this news was, it was grave.
"What happened?" he asked in a low voice. "Do not tell me it is bad news."
At the sound of Karl's voice, Tyrion's hand trembled slightly. He set down his wine cup and looked up.
"Where have you been?" Tyrion asked instinctively. "You look terrible."
Then he shook his head.
"No matter. Three hours after you disappeared, a raven came from King's Landing."
He lifted a folded letter from the table and handed it over.
Karl took it and stepped closer to the candlelight.
He unfolded the parchment.
The first line read:
To His Majesty, King Karl of House Baratheon…
Karl froze.
His eyes widened as he stared at the words.
Slowly, he raised his head and looked at Tyrion.
This had to be some mistake.
Some absurd joke.
But Tyrion only nodded grimly.
"It seems you understand the meaning already," he said. "Keep reading."
Karl's jaw tightened.
The seal at the bottom was unmistakable—the direwolf of House Stark pressed into white wax.
The letter was from Eddard Stark, Hand of the King and Lord of Winterfell.
And as the old saying went—
Black wings bring black words.
Karl continued reading.
When you receive this letter, your father, King Robert Baratheon, will already have passed from this world.
He was mortally wounded by a wild boar during a royal hunt.
Before his death, in the full authority of Robert Baratheon the First, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, he formally legitimized you, Karl El, as his lawful trueborn son.
You are hereby named his rightful heir and first successor to the Iron Throne.
A written will has been witnessed and shall be presented before the Small Council upon your return to King's Landing.
Signed,
Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell.
Karl stood motionless.
For a long while, he said nothing.
The only sounds inside the tent were the crackling candles and the breathing of those present.
Outside, the sky grew brighter as dawn advanced.
Robert Baratheon was dead.
Even though Karl had changed many events, fate had still found the same road.
After several moments, Karl closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
Then he opened them again and looked at Tyrion.
"What do you suggest… my Hand of the King?"
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"Have I already been appointed?"
Even in such a tense moment, the dwarf could not resist a joke.
Karl gave the faintest twitch of a smile.
He folded the letter and tucked it away.
Then he sat at the table.
"Perhaps I will pin the Hand's badge to your chest when I actually sit the Iron Throne."
"For now, let us hold a small council."
Tyrion waved away the four guards, leaving only the maester, Jon, and Sam.
The two young men looked completely lost.
Karl gestured for them to sit.
Once they did, he explained the contents of the letter.
"The King is dead."
"Before dying, he legitimized me as his lawful son."
"Lord Stark addresses me as King Karl Baratheon the First."
Silence followed.
Then Jon Snow suddenly knelt.
He drew the sword Karl had gifted him, placed it on the floor, rested both hands on his knees, and bowed his head.
"Your Grace," Jon said solemnly, "your knight, Jon Snow, the White Wolf, awaits your command."
Samwell, startled and half a moment behind, immediately copied him.
"Your Grace, your squire, Samwell Tarly, awaits your command."
Karl almost laughed despite himself.
Tyrion spread his hands dramatically.
"Your Grace, may I be excused from kneeling? With these legs, standing back up is a campaign of its own."
Karl rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Enough. Both of you rise."
"This situation is far more complicated than it appears."
That was the truth.
Karl's thoughts were in chaos.
For all his efforts to reshape events, Robert had still died in nearly the same manner as before—gored by a boar during a hunt.
And now Karl stood at a crossroads he had never intended to reach so soon.
His original plan had been simple.
Develop quietly.
Absorb the Westerlands.
Build power over eight or ten years.
Then claim the throne from a position of overwhelming strength.
During that time, he believed he could convince Robert to acknowledge and legitimize him.
Instead, Robert had done exactly that—
And then died immediately after.
The timing was disastrous.
Karl now had the title of heir, but none of the foundation required to hold it.
A crown without support was not a prize.
It was bait.
Even if Karl relied purely on his monstrous strength and defeated every rival in battle, ruling afterward would be another matter entirely.
Aegon the Conqueror had dragons, bloodline prestige, and a dynasty behind him.
Karl had only himself.
Everything he possessed had been gathered through coincidence, cunning, and a single year of effort.
That was not enough to safely rule seven kingdoms.
Then there was the greater uncertainty—
The mysterious game world.
Karl had become powerful through it. Strong enough that, in open combat, few men in Westeros could threaten him.
But the game world also contained beings far more dangerous than kings.
Witches.
Vampires.
Ancient sorcerers.
Creatures touched by gods.
And dragons.
If such beings could be brought into reality, they might become tools of conquest—
Or disasters beyond control.
Karl had no certainty they would obey him outside the world where he was "the player."
There, rules bent around him.
Here, they would not.
A dark elf witch with centuries of knowledge could become a godlike force in Westeros.
A hidden spider queen could breed an empire beneath the earth.
Even a single true dragon from that world might surpass everything House Targaryen ever possessed.
Karl could not gamble the fate of the realm on forces he did not understand.
That was why he had always pursued the stone dragon egg so obsessively.
Something he could study.
Something he might control.
Freedom through power—but power that remained his.
Tyrion interrupted his thoughts.
"You are thinking too loudly."
Karl looked at him.
Tyrion leaned forward.
"So, Your Grace… what now?"
Karl's expression hardened.
"Now?"
He looked toward the east.
"Now we decide whether I ride to King's Landing as heir…"
"Or whether I let the realm tear itself apart first."
The candle flames flickered.
No one spoke.
Because every man in that tent understood the truth.
King Robert was dead.
And the game for the Iron Throne had begun.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)