"The Martell family? Oberyn Martell—the Red Viper?"
The name alone was enough to shatter the fragile calm in the chamber.
Karl's words landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples across the long table. The four men present stiffened almost simultaneously, each reacting in their own way.
Suspicion had already been circling like a vulture.
But now—it had a direction.
If one began from the method of murder—poison—then House Martell inevitably entered the discussion.
House Martell was infamous for its mastery of toxins. And more importantly, it had motive.
That was the key.
Their sudden arrival in King's Landing had already been strange. In times like these, powerful houses did nothing without purpose. Yet the Martells had done… nothing.
They attended Karl's martial games half-heartedly. They drank, indulged, and lingered in the capital as if they were merely passing travelers.
And that was precisely what made it suspicious.
Because in King's Landing—
Doing nothing was often the most deliberate move of all.
"Now that you mention it…" someone muttered.
The atmosphere thickened.
If the Martells truly harbored resentment—if they still remembered the deaths of Elia Martell and her children during the fall of the Targaryen dynasty—then Robert Baratheon was not merely a king.
He was a symbol.
And symbols were meant to be destroyed.
Eddard Stark, seated at the table, spoke slowly.
"If they are behind His Majesty's death… then it is not unreasonable."
His voice was calm, but his mind was elsewhere.
He remembered the end of the rebellion.
The Mad King dying beneath the Iron Throne.
The bodies of Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys.
The blood.
If the Martells had never forgotten…
Then perhaps they had simply waited.
And now, with the Lannisters weakened and the throne unstable—
They had struck.
Karl's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
"I want to know something," he said.
His eyes opened, sharp and cold.
"If the Martells are responsible… was Stannis Baratheon involved?"
Silence fell instantly.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, lowered his gaze slightly, thinking.
Eddard hesitated, then looked toward Varys.
If anyone knew the truth—or something close to it—it would be him.
Varys sighed softly.
"Your Majesty… I'm afraid no one can answer that with certainty."
He folded his hands.
"Since arriving in King's Landing, Stannis Baratheon has had no known contact with House Martell."
A brief pause.
Then, carefully—
"But… if they conspired together, such dealings would not occur where we could see them."
The implication was chilling.
Invisible alliances.
Hidden agreements.
Plots beyond the reach of spies.
The air in the chamber seemed to grow colder.
Even Barristan Selmy felt it—the subtle rise of killing intent emanating from the young king.
Karl looked directly at Varys.
"After this meeting," he said quietly, "dispatch the Gold Cloaks."
"Surround the Martell estate."
"And find Oberyn Martell."
Varys nodded.
"Prince Oberyn Martell is currently at a brothel, accompanied by his paramour. The establishment once belonged to Petyr Baelish… but he purchased it upon arriving in the city."
Karl's gaze sharpened.
"You're implying something."
Varys smiled faintly.
"Only that he has made himself… comfortable."
Karl let out a cold chuckle.
"Do your job. Leave the rest to me."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The tension in the room eased slightly as Karl leaned back and closed his eyes.
When he spoke again, his tone had shifted—calmer, but no less authoritative.
"All of this remains speculation," he said. "But speculation must lead to truth."
He opened his eyes and turned to Eddard.
"Prime Minister."
Eddard straightened.
"Your Majesty."
"I am willing to give my uncles a chance."
The words were measured—but heavy.
"Issue a royal decree."
"Summon Stannis Baratheon, Renly Baratheon, and Mace Tyrell to King's Landing."
"They are to present themselves before me and swear allegiance."
His voice hardened.
"If they refuse—"
"It will be treated as treason."
He brought his hand down on the table.
CRACK.
The sound echoed through the chamber like thunder.
The heavy wood split beneath his palm, and even the embedded metal fittings shattered.
Everyone flinched.
Eddard closed his eyes briefly, then bowed.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
Karl exhaled slowly.
Then his expression softened.
"…And my father?"
The shift in tone was noticeable.
Gone was the iron authority.
In its place—something human.
"When will his funeral be held?"
Eddard's voice grew heavy.
"We awaited your arrival, Your Majesty."
Karl nodded.
"Then it will be tomorrow morning."
"Outside the Great Sept of Baelor."
"I will preside personally."
A faint, bittersweet smile touched his lips.
"He always loved a crowd."
Then, just as quickly, the king returned.
"Lock down the harbor," he ordered.
"No ships leave."
"Confiscate them if necessary."
"And ensure no member of House Martell escapes the city."
Karl turned to leave.
But—
"Your Majesty!"
Eddard's voice stopped him.
Karl looked back.
"…What is it?"
"The late king's will has not yet been read."
Karl sighed.
"…Very well. Read it."
Eddard retrieved the sealed document.
After confirmation from Barristan and Grand Maester Pycelle, he began.
"The will of Robert I of House Baratheon…"
The chamber fell silent.
Every word carried weight.
"I hereby appoint Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell… to serve as Hand of the King and regent…"
"Until my son returns and ascends the throne."
When it ended, Eddard handed the parchment to Karl.
Karl studied it.
Then looked up.
"You didn't mention this in your letter."
Eddard hesitated.
"There was no need. Once you returned… everything would be yours."
Karl narrowed his eyes.
"You intend to leave."
It wasn't a question.
Eddard didn't deny it.
"I am not suited to this place," he admitted. "You need someone better."
Karl stepped closer.
"So you would abandon your king?"
Eddard's eyes widened.
"Never!"
He dropped to one knee immediately.
"I, Eddard Stark… pledge my loyalty to Karl of House Baratheon."
"Your will is my duty."
"Your cause—my cause."
A smile appeared on Karl's face.
He reached out—and pulled him up.
"Then hear my command."
His voice rang with authority.
"In the name of the King—"
"I appoint you to remain Hand of the King."
"And until I formally ascend the throne…"
"You will serve as Regent."
Silk Street
Silk Street.
Karl hadn't walked these streets in a long time.
Once, he had been nothing more than a bastard with a sword—another sellsword trying to survive.
Now—
He returned as king.
And brought an army with him.
The brothel called "Red Snake" stood surrounded.
Gold Cloaks blocked every exit.
The Kingsguard stood at the front—seven figures in white armor, gleaming under torchlight.
Karl dismounted.
"Bring me Oberyn Martell," he said.
Four knights stepped forward and entered.
Moments later—
Shouts.
Steel clashing.
Screams.
Then silence.
Karl frowned.
Something felt off.
Without hesitation, he grabbed a spear from a nearby guard and walked inside.
"Your Majesty—!" Barristan called, rushing after him.
Karl didn't slow.
The air inside was thick with tension.
And blood.
Whatever awaited him—
Would not be simple.
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