After his strange transmigration, Karl Stone had inherited everything that came with this new life.
In his previous world, Karl had been a huge fan of A Song of Ice and Fire. He'd read the novels, watched the uncensored HBO series, and devoured every video analysis he could find. He wouldn't dare call himself a scholar of Westeros, but he at least understood the broad strokes of its history, houses, and bloody politics.
Yet when he first heard the name Karl Stone, it rang no bells.
Not every person named "Stone" was someone mentioned in the books, of course. In Westeros, bastards were common enough that no one could track them all. Being born out of wedlock wasn't even a disgrace to most nobles — sometimes it was a badge of pride.
Still, something about his new identity felt off.
"Stone." A simple name for bastards born in the Vale of Arryn.
When Karl woke in this world, he was a twelve-year-old stable boy at the Moon Gate, working for House Arryn. His job? Raising donkeys. Those donkeys carried fresh food to the Eyrie — eggs, bacon, butter, fruits, vegetables — anything delicate enough to spoil on the long, steep climb.
Sometimes, when visitors came through the mountains, he guided them up the narrow paths. But most days he smelled of straw, hay, and donkey sweat.
That was the world he woke into — dirty, cold, and real.
It had taken months for him to adjust to the rough rhythm of medieval life: the hunger, the hard work, the lack of privacy. Yet he survived, using the patience and reasoning of someone from another world.
Still, Karl's mind refused to stay trapped in that narrow valley. Once his body grew used to the work, his curiosity turned outward. Who was he really? Why had he, of all people, been brought here?
He began digging into his origins.
Everyone in Westeros knew the bastard surnames — Snow for the North, Waters for the Crownlands, Storm for the Stormlands, Sand for Dorne. Being a "Stone" meant his father was a nobleman from the Vale.
So who had fathered him?
The first clue came when he heard of a girl named Mya Stone, who by rights should have existed in the Vale — a bastard daughter of Robert Baratheon, conceived when Robert had lived there under Jon Arryn's wardship. But in this world, no such girl existed.
Instead, there was him.
After some cautious questioning and piecing together old memories, Karl realized the truth: the man who had once lifted him into the air, laughing — that tall, dark-haired giant — had been Robert Baratheon himself.
That meant he, Karl Stone, was the firstborn of the future king.
Except something had changed. The child who should have been born a girl — Mya Stone — was now a boy.
And the boy's original soul had been kicked out of his own body by a donkey.
When Karl came to, it wasn't Mya's body he inhabited, but a twelve-year-old version of himself in this twisted, gender-swapped branch of reality.
Even after six years, he still couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry about it.
"Tsk… unbelievable," he muttered, rubbing his jaw as he thought about it again. The memory was enough to give anyone a headache.
He pinched himself out of habit. The pain was real.
"Yeah, not a dream. Damn it — if I told this story at a tavern, no one would buy me an ale."
Karl let out a helpless chuckle, shook his head, and ignored the group of girls sneaking glances his way. He slapped the rock beneath him, stood up, and whistled sharply.
"Shh~! Get moving, you lazy bastards! If you don't, the King who can't sleep at night might kick your asses himself!"
His whistle echoed down the camp. The mercenaries lounging around — pissing, laughing, or half asleep — grumbled as they got to their feet.
"Boss!" one shouted, grinning. "They say the Queen's the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms!"
"Ha! If the King asks nicely, that noble Lannister lady will be on her knees before sunset!"
"So if His Majesty's in a bad mood tonight, don't blame us — blame the woman keeping her legs closed!"
Laughter broke out among the men.
Karl rolled his eyes. Their mouths were filthier than the stables they slept in.
He grabbed the reins of his horse, Fox, who had trotted over at the sound of his whistle. As he mounted, he turned his gaze toward the loudest mouth of the bunch — Powell, a red-faced rogue who loved to stir trouble.
Karl flashed a sharp smile. "Powell, when the white cloaks come for you, I hope you don't piss yourself under the Queen's skirt."
Before Powell could retort, Kesi — Karl's right-hand man — snorted with laughter. "Boss, I don't think they'll need to grab him. Just one look at a white cloak, and Powell'll be on his knees, armor or not!"
The group howled.
"If I were a white cloak," another added, "I'd shove my longsword right down his throat!"
"Ha! Keep talking, you half-wit goat humpers!" Powell shouted, red with anger. "You lot were born crooked!"
"Yeah, crooked enough to smell Fox's fart!" someone yelled back.
Karl couldn't help laughing this time. Their insults had a rhythm to them — half comedy routine, half battlefield chant.
Soon the talk spiraled from Queen Cersei's beauty to Powell's supposed tastes, to Kesi's last stolen loaf of bread, and finally to Mary, the tavern maid they'd all tried to charm in vain.
Karl ignored them. He tightened Fox's reins and looked toward the northern road.
"We need to move," he said quietly. "The King's got to rest before nightfall."
The mercenaries groaned but obeyed.
Unlike pampered knights, they didn't have tents with waxed canvas or feather beds. Their "beds" were burlap mats tied to their horses' flanks — good enough as long as it didn't rain.
Horses mattered more than men out here. A knight could replace a squire; a dead horse could cripple a campaign.
By the time Karl mounted up, the others were ready.
The road near the Crownlands was easy traveling. The King's Road — the pride of Westeros — ran straight and smooth all the way from the Wall to Storm's End, built centuries ago by King Jaehaerys the Conciliator.
Karl liked to think of it as the Seven Kingdoms' version of a highway — a solid stone path stretching two thousand miles, cutting across half a continent.
For his Blackrock mercenaries, travel along it was almost too easy.
They passed the occasional inn or tavern, and before dusk fell that day, Karl spotted one that fit perfectly.
"This'll do," he said, squinting at the low-roofed building ahead. The sign was faded, but the yard was big enough to hold the royal wagons. "Let's hope the King's fat ass likes it."
He dismounted, stretched his stiff legs, and rubbed his back. After a day's ride, even a soft saddle felt like a rock.
Kesi came up beside him, wiping sweat from his neck. "If the King complains about this place, he can sleep in the mud. To me, this is a bloody palace."
Karl smirked. "You've got low standards."
He headed inside to talk to the innkeeper. They were the vanguard — the King's escort wouldn't arrive until later. It was Karl's job to make sure the route was safe, the stops were clear, and the wine wasn't poisoned.
What he didn't tell the others was that none of his "random choices" were actually random.
Before leaving King's Landing, Varys — the spider himself — had handed Karl a soft deerskin map marked with symbols. The eunuch had told him, in that polite, oily voice, exactly which inns were "safe" for the royal entourage and which to avoid.
Karl didn't trust the man, but he wasn't stupid enough to ignore him either.
As he walked out of the inn, satisfied with the arrangements, he saw the sun dipping toward the horizon.
"Good. We'll make camp here."
He turned to Kesi. "Keep an eye on the men. If they start acting up, grab a handful of horse manure and shove it down their throats."
Kesi laughed, baring his teeth. "With pleasure, Boss."
Karl's voice hardened. "Listen — when it's just us, I don't care what jokes they crack. But when the royal guard shows up, they'd better act like soldiers. Understand?"
"Got it."
The other mercenaries, who had been pretending not to listen, fell silent. Karl's authority wasn't built on fear — but none of them wanted to test his patience.
He mounted Fox again and looked back down the road they had come from.
The next group would be arriving soon.
The King, the Queen, and their golden children.
And somewhere behind them, secrets that could burn kingdoms.
Karl adjusted his cloak, muttering under his breath. "Time to play the loyal bastard again."
He nudged Fox forward, riding south to report.
Behind him, the laughter of his men echoed through the campyard, fading into the twilight.
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