"Ten silver deer—make sure they're gentle with him! A newborn fawn can't withstand the torment of a hungry wolf!"
Before Jon Snow—still dazed and struggling to process what was happening—could even protest, Karl seized the moment to shove "activity money" into the eager hands of the Blackrock Mercenary Group.
The effect was immediate.
The mercenaries erupted in cheers, their roar echoing through the hall like a pack of drunken wildlings who had just discovered an unguarded wine cellar. They abandoned their commander without hesitation and rushed toward Jon Snow with the united enthusiasm of men who had spent far too long on the road and finally found entertainment.
Some of the rougher ones crowded even closer around the poor, bewildered bastard, bragging loudly about their leader's legendary escapades in King's Landing. They puffed out their chests, tripping over each other in their rush to tell Jon that—despite being a bastard—Karl's eldest son apparently had unrestricted access to Silk Street.
"And he never has to pay a single copper!" one of them roared proudly.
"It's not about status!" added another. "It's about strength!"
With a dozen armed and boisterous men preaching "popular righteousness" in his face, Jon Snow's ability to refuse shrank to exactly zero. He stood there, drowning in their tidal wave of "brotherly affection," clutching the last threads of his dignity like a man holding onto a piece of driftwood during a storm.
Watching this from a safe distance, Karl folded his arms, leaning casually against a pillar with the satisfied smirk of someone who had just committed a crime but also improved the world in a small, beautiful way.
He could already imagine Jon's expression afterward—the mixture of despair, regret, and the faint, painful emotions of a boy who had lost his chance to meet his future wildling sweetheart.
Since I stole that opportunity away, Karl rationalized shamelessly, I'll compensate the kid in my own way.
The welcome banquet had already been raging for four hours. The warmth of the hall rose in waves, the air thick with the smells of roasted meat, baked bread, and Winterfell's famously strong ale. Minstrels sang near the hearth, dogs wandered between tables in search of scraps, and drunken men laughed loud enough to wake the dead.
Karl blended into this environment as easily as water into a river. He sat comfortably among the Northerners and mercenaries, listening with genuine curiosity to their wild stories—tales of battles, hunts, and affairs that absolutely should not have been confessed in a public hall.
Every once in a while, he chuckled secretly, remembering the five chaotic, glorious years he had spent drifting across the Free Cities.
Just as he was savoring a particularly exaggerated story about a man and someone's very married sister, the atmosphere in the hall shifted. A murmur rippled through the crowd as the host and honored guests finally entered, stepping through the main doors in a grand procession.
The line passed right behind Karl's seat, prompting him to turn with polite curiosity.
At the front was Duke Eddard Stark himself, solemn and stern as always, escorting the queen.
Cersei Lannister—lauded as the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms—absolutely lived up to the legends in the candlelight. Jewels glittered in her crown, illuminating her cascading golden hair. The icy blue eyes beneath her elegant brows shone with cold pride, perfectly matching the finely cut emeralds that adorned her.
She allowed Ned Stark to guide her only as far as necessary. She did not spare him a second glance; even her smile looked like it had been hammered into place.
Once seated, Queen Cersei swept her gaze across the hall. She seemed to be searching for someone—and not finding them. A faint crease appeared between her brows before she smoothed it away, as if even displeasure was beneath her.
Following her came King Robert Baratheon, his massive frame wrapped in royal finery. His belly preceded him like a herald, and his cheeks were flushed—not from exertion but from whatever filled the jeweled goblet in his right hand. His free arm held Lady Catelyn's with casual friendliness.
Behind them came a parade of children.
Little Rickon Stark waddled in front, barely three years old yet trying earnestly to imitate the regal manner of grown men. His tiny serious face made Karl grin. He almost reached for a copper star to slip the boy, but forced himself to behave.
Rickon spotted Jon and paused to wave at him enthusiastically.
Jon, swarmed by mercenaries and nursing a headache the size of the Wall, could only smile weakly and shoo the boy forward.
Next came Robb Stark, dressed proudly in a grey wool sweater trimmed with white—the colors of House Stark. He did not notice Jon at all because he was far too busy imitating a king by offering his arm to Princess Myrcella.
She was not yet eight years old, and trying to hold a Stark boy's arm at that height required considerable stretching, resulting in an adorably awkward posture. Her golden curls fell in ringlets around her bejeweled hairnet, shining like sunlight on fresh snow.
As she passed Karl, she thought she saw him looking her way. Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned her head, pretending not to notice him as she maintained a stiff, proper expression.
Robb glanced at her with the dreamy look of a boy who had already imagined an entire future with her.
Then came Arya Stark walking beside Prince Tommen Baratheon. Tommen's soft blond curls were nearly shoulder-length, making him look like a chubby angelic girl—an observation Arya would definitely voice if she wasn't on her best behavior.
Sansa Stark arrived next, paired with Prince Joffrey.
Joffrey—tall for his age, with flowing golden curls and eyes the color of deep ocean water—was clearly dressed to impress. His velvet collar and ornate tie would have drawn attention even without his natural arrogance.
Sansa walked beside him, radiant with excitement.
But her joy flickered the moment she noticed her prince's expression twist abruptly. His confident smile vanished, replaced by a grimace as if he'd seen a ghost.
Curious, Sansa turned her head—and saw Karl.
Karl, handsome enough to make half of Winterfell blush, was waving. Sansa startled, cheeks turning red as a summer rose. She ducked her head and hurried forward so quickly that she ended up pulling Joffrey along, completely reversing who was leading whom.
The person Karl had been waving at wasn't either of them.
It was Tyrion Lannister.
Stumbling a step behind Jaime Lannister, Tyrion looked like someone trying to hide behind a boulder while being half its size. His mismatched eyes flicked around sharply, his deformed legs working overtime to keep pace with his annoyingly perfect older brother.
Jaime was dressed in bright crimson silk, a black satin cloak flowing behind him, boots polished to a mirror-like shine, and a roaring golden lion embroidered proudly on his chest. He moved with the easy grace of a man who knew he was one of the most desirable figures in Westeros.
Tyrion, in contrast, looked like a lopsided goblin trying to keep up. His enormous head and short stature drew more attention precisely because he wanted none.
And then he noticed Karl waving.
Tyrion's entire face lit up with mischief. He raised a middle finger in greeting—a gesture so crude that a passing noblewoman nearly dropped her wine.
Karl returned the gesture with equal enthusiasm.
Benjen Stark followed next—a tall, lean man with the calm gaze of someone who had long ago chosen duty over comfort. Karl eyed him with curiosity, stroking his chin before dropping the gesture.
Benjen spotted Jon and offered him a gentle nod and smile.
Walking beside him was Theon Greyjoy—handsome in a smug, irritably self-satisfied way. He did not bother acknowledging Jon; instead, he fixed his attention curiously on Karl.
Jon didn't mind. This sort of behavior from Theon wasn't new.
Once all honored guests were seated on the high platform, the servants moved swiftly to refill goblets, replenish dishes, and circulate more wine. A wave of raised cups followed, the hall briefly shimmering with gold and silver as toasts rang out for the King, the North, and the alliance between them.
Only then did the true banquet begin.
Tables overflowed with roast boar dripping with honeyed glaze, thick-cut venison steaks, steaming loaves of bread, bowls of onion soup, and pies filled with spiced apples and chunks of pork. The noise swelled into a pleasant roar—laughter, music, clinking goblets, drunken shouting, and the steady clatter of feasting.
Karl took a deep breath, savoring the energy. Winterfell was cold, ancient, and harsh, but tonight it was alive.
And for the moment, Karl could blend effortlessly into the warmth, watching the future lords and ladies of Westeros take their first steps into the tangled webs of fate.
Whatever chaos the night would bring—whether to Jon, the mercenaries, the queen, or the kingslayer—Karl intended to enjoy every minute of it.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)