The King's entourage did not linger long in King's Landing.
Whether it was impatience or restlessness that drove him, Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, seemed eager to leave the Red Keep behind.
Less than half an hour after Karl Stone dismissed young Uin back to the city, the order came — the King wished to depart immediately.
And when the King commanded, no man tarried.
As the vanguard of the royal host, Karl's Free Riders were the first to move. The moment the gold-and-black banners of House Baratheon began to sway in the wind, Karl mounted his great warhorse, Fox, and gave a sharp whistle. His fifteen men followed close behind, the clatter of hooves marking the first beats of their long journey north.
They were a rough band — fifteen in total, gathered by Karl in the half-year since he had come to King's Landing. Some were sellswords from the Free Cities, others former soldiers turned wanderers. There were veterans with scars older than the boys who rode beside them, and a few who looked as though they had never drawn blood in battle.
A motley band. Unrefined. Unsteady. But loyal enough to follow him.
Karl knew it was not loyalty to him that bound them, but rather the coin of the Iron Bank jingling in his purse. Still, he did not mind. Loyalty was a luxury; competence was enough.
The Free Riders advanced along the King's Road, sunlight flashing off spearheads and helms. They had ridden scarcely an hour when Karl raised a hand, signaling a halt.
"Rest here," he said.
The men obeyed, dismounting to water their horses and stretch their legs. Compared to the massive royal column lumbering far behind them, their progress was swift — their baggage light, their pace unhurried. But a vanguard could not stray too far ahead. Their duty was to scout the road, not vanish upon it.
And so, as the summer sun hung heavy overhead, Karl chose a shady patch beside the road where a great oak tree stretched its arms wide. He loosened Fox's reins and let the gelding graze freely nearby before lowering himself onto a flat rock. The warmth of the stone seeped through his armor.
Behind them, the great host of the King crept forward — slow as honey sliding from a spoon.
The reason was obvious: the Queen's wheelhouse.
Even from a distance, Karl could almost picture it — the gilded monstrosity rolling northward, drawn by forty white horses. Crafted of polished oak bound with golden trim, its interior was said to rival any noble's bedchamber, with silk curtains, feather cushions, and a small writing desk for the Queen. The thing weighed as much as a tower. Each turn of its wheels left deep scars upon the King's Road.
Robert Baratheon could thunder all he liked about haste, but Cersei Lannister's wheelhouse would always move at the pace of royalty — slow, deliberate, and heavy with vanity.
Karl chuckled to himself at the thought. He unstrapped his water skin, but before he could drink, a familiar voice interrupted his rest.
"Boss!"
Kesi approached, his crooked grin revealing the gap in his teeth. He tossed his reins to another rider, sauntered over with an easy swagger, and pulled the stopper from his own water skin. The smell of strongwine wafted faintly through the air as he offered it to Karl.
"Here," Kesi said, his tone half mischievous, half conspiratorial. "I heard something interesting."
Karl took the skin, raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"I heard," Kesi began, lowering his voice like a man about to share a dangerous secret, "that the Queen doesn't much care for you."
Karl froze mid-sip. The wine burned faintly down his throat. He let out a slow breath, glancing sideways at his lieutenant.
"Who told you that nonsense?" he asked calmly, though his eyes had sharpened like drawn steel. "Careful with your tongue, Kesi. Rumors like that can get a man's head parted from his shoulders."
Kesi laughed, unbothered. "I didn't mean anything by it! Just something I heard along the road. They say you're too… familiar with the Hand of the King." He waggled his eyebrows. "Seems the Queen doesn't like that."
Karl took another measured sip, letting the liquid roll in his mouth before swallowing. "Jon Arryn is — was — the King's Hand," he said quietly. "And he's dead. The realm mourns him, and we are traveling north to name his successor. You'd do well to remember that."
Kesi blinked. "I didn't mean—"
Karl raised a gloved hand, silencing him. "You talk too much, old friend. One of these days, someone important will hear you. You'll lose more than a tooth next time."
Kesi rubbed his jaw, sheepish. "Aye, you're right, boss."
Karl's gaze drifted beyond him toward the distant fields. Several young women were gathered there, spreading a blue rug upon the grass. They laughed and talked softly, the sound carried faintly by the wind. A few of them turned to glance at the resting riders, then giggled behind their hands.
The young men with them — likely minor servants or squires from the royal retinue — circled like hounds, eager to impress.
Karl smiled faintly. For a moment, he imagined what it might be like to have such leisure — to laugh in the sunlight without thought of war or coin. But that life was not his.
He turned his gaze back to Kesi, who was still hovering with that sly grin. "You really should stop worrying about who the Queen likes," Karl said dryly. "Her kind doesn't see men like us at all."
Kesi's grin faltered, replaced by a flash of curiosity. "Maybe not you," he said, "but you're not exactly 'men like us,' are you, boss? You've got a surname. Stone."
Karl gave a short laugh. "A bastard's name, nothing more."
"Still," Kesi said, scratching his beard, "folk talk. They say you might be the late Hand's get. Some even swear you've got noble blood hiding under all that armor."
Karl's expression cooled. "Do they?"
"Aye," Kesi went on, encouraged by his captain's silence. "Said Jon Arryn had three wives and no heirs worth naming. Maybe he had a bastard once — a strong lad he kept secret. Makes sense, doesn't it? The Hand always did care too much about honor to admit such a thing."
Karl's hand tightened subtly around the water skin. He forced a laugh, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"The former Hand is dead, Kesi," he said. "Dead men cast no shadows."
Kesi looked uneasy now. "I didn't mean any harm—"
"Then stop talking like a fool." Karl's tone hardened. "Loose tongues are dangerous. Be grateful you only lost a tooth last time."
Kesi grimaced, rubbing the gap again. "Aye, aye. You don't have to remind me."
Karl handed him back the skin and leaned against the rock, watching his men. They were sprawled in small groups — sharpening blades, checking tack, or dozing under the shade. The light glinted off mismatched armor, the dull sheen of mercenary iron.
He studied them silently, one by one — the men he had gathered since his arrival in King's Landing. Fighters, thieves, and drunks. But when he called, they came. Perhaps that was enough.
The faint rumble of distant hooves reached his ears — the sound of the main host catching up. The King's laughter rolled faintly through the air, loud even across the distance. Robert's booming voice carried like a storm breaking on the horizon.
Karl rose from the rock, dusting his gloves. "Mount up," he called.
His men obeyed, moving quickly to their horses. Kesi gave him a sidelong look. "Still angry?" he asked cautiously.
Karl's lips quirked upward. "If I was angry, you'd know."
Kesi chuckled and swung into his saddle. "Then I'll count myself lucky."
Karl's gaze turned north. The road ahead wound through rolling green hills, disappearing into the horizon. Beyond that lay the Riverlands — and further still, the frozen realm of Winterfell, seat of House Stark.
The North, he thought. Cold, honest, and cruel.
Fox snorted beneath him, stamping its hooves impatiently. Karl patted the gelding's neck. "Easy, boy. The Queen's palace on wheels will slow them all day. We'll see the North before they see the end of this hill."
Kesi grinned beside him. "And what waits for us up there, boss?"
Karl looked at the horizon for a long moment before answering. "Snow," he said at last. "And the start of something we can't yet see."
Then, as if to punctuate his words, the royal horns sounded again in the distance — three deep blasts that rolled across the fields like thunder. The King was moving.
Karl's eyes narrowed. He raised his arm, signaling his men forward.
"Ride," he ordered. "Let's make sure the road ahead stays clear."
The Free Riders spurred their mounts, the rhythmic thunder of hooves rising once more. Dust and sunlight mingled in the air, and the small vanguard galloped north, their shadows stretching long across the golden road.
Behind them, the royal host crawled onward, unaware that somewhere at its forefront rode a man whose name — Karl Stone — would one day be remembered not as that of a bastard mercenary, but as the beginning of something far greater.