The procession that had gone out to welcome the King did not remain a mere reception for long.
The moment the two forces met, it transformed into something far greater—a triumphant parade.
From the outer gates of King's Landing to the heart of the city itself, the streets erupted into celebration. What had begun as a formal welcome quickly turned into a roaring sea of joy, sweeping up every citizen into its tide.
At King Robert Baratheon's enthusiastic urging, Ser Karl Stone mounted the horse he had once ridden in the Vale—a powerful warhorse that had only just been returned to him—and joined the procession as one of its central figures.
Kesi had personally brought the horse back to him.
The reunion between man and beast was immediate and heartfelt.
The warhorse—Fox—snorted softly, nudging Karl's hand with its large, warm muzzle. Karl chuckled and stroked its head, feeling the familiar strength beneath its muscles.
"You've been eating well," he muttered.
Indeed, the horse hadn't grown thin in his absence. If anything, it had grown stronger, its body more robust than before.
Satisfied, Karl swung himself into the saddle and guided Fox forward, merging into what had now become a grand victory parade.
From the city gates to the Red Keep, King's Landing was alive.
People lined both sides of the broad streets, crowding balconies, windows, and rooftops. Cheers echoed endlessly, rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore.
"Long live the King!"
"Victory to the North!"
"The Winter Wolves!"
That last cry spread rapidly through the crowd.
It carried with it the memory of another time—when the Northern armies had marched south under Lord Rodrik Dustin during the Dance of the Dragons.
Now, once again, the North had come.
And once again, they had emerged victorious.
Eddard Stark heard the chants and couldn't help but turn back slightly. His gaze fell on Robert, who was grinning broadly, basking in the adoration.
A faint smile tugged at Ned's lips.
Then he turned forward again and raised his hand to the crowd in acknowledgment.
The cheers grew louder.
Among the ranks of soldiers, one name echoed repeatedly.
"Karl Stone!"
"Bloodwind Karl!"
"Lion Slayer!"
The titles varied, but the admiration was the same.
To the common people, these warriors were more than soldiers—they were saviors. Symbols of survival. Proof that the chaos of war had ended, and life could finally return to normal.
Flowers were thrown into the streets.
Songs filled the air.
Praise flowed like wine.
But such glory belonged only to the victors.
Behind the triumphant procession came another sight entirely.
Prison carts.
Inside them sat the defeated—most notably, Tywin Lannister and those who had committed grave crimes during the war.
The contrast was stark.
Where the victors were showered with admiration, the prisoners were met with hatred.
King's Landing had never loved the Lannisters.
After Robert Baratheon slew Prince Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident, Tywin Lannister—who had remained neutral until that moment—marched on King's Landing with twelve thousand troops.
He claimed loyalty to King Aerys II.
He asked to be let in.
Despite warnings from others, Grand Maester Pycelle convinced the Mad King to open the gates.
It was a decision that would seal the city's fate.
Once inside, Tywin's forces betrayed the crown they had sworn to serve. They sacked the city in Robert's name, looting, burning, and slaughtering without restraint.
And then—
Jaime Lannister, Tywin's own son and a Kingsguard knight, slew King Aerys on the Iron Throne.
From that day forward, the people of King's Landing never forgot.
And never forgave.
Now, as the prison carts rolled through the streets, the people unleashed their fury.
Rotten vegetables.
Spoiled eggs.
Stones.
Filth.
Anything that could be thrown… was thrown.
Fish gone bad from the docks, horse manure, even buckets of waste—all became weapons of contempt.
The once-mighty lion was reduced to a spectacle.
Yet inside the cart, Tywin Lannister remained composed.
His green eyes, flecked with gold, were lowered—not in shame, but in quiet observation.
He did not rage.
He did not plead.
Only when something was about to strike him directly would he raise a hand to block it.
Even in humiliation, the lion refused to bare its teeth.
The City Watch did little to intervene.
Nor did the Northern soldiers escorting the prisoners.
At most, they prevented fatal blows—deflecting stones or stepping in when things became too dangerous.
But otherwise…
They allowed it.
This was the will of the King.
This was his victory.
The procession took hours.
From the Gate of the Gods, through the heart of the city, past the Great Sept of Baelor, and finally to the Red Keep.
By the time Robert Baratheon ascended the steps of his castle, nearly three hours had passed.
Later, in the Throne Hall…
"Ned," Robert called out, his voice thick with drink and delight. "How many years has it been?"
He held an ornate golden goblet, larger and more extravagant than any other in the hall.
"I can't remember the last time I felt so loved!"
He laughed, patting the Iron Throne beneath him.
"Perhaps the day I first sat on this damned seat?"
Eddard Stark, seated below as Hand of the King, looked up wearily.
He was exhausted—far more than he cared to admit.
Instead of answering immediately, he picked up his cup, took a token sip, and then drained it in one motion.
Clearing his throat, he finally spoke.
"Your Grace… if I recall correctly, you've never truly received this kind of 'love.'"
His tone was calm.
Too calm.
Robert's smile faltered.
"Seven Hells, Ned," he grumbled. "Must you always ruin the moment?"
Eddard continued, his expression unchanged.
"If anyone was loved… it was Jon Arryn."
That struck deeper than any blade.
Robert's face darkened slightly.
But then, after a moment, he waved it off.
"Maybe so," he admitted. "But now that honor belongs to my son!"
"And that means—it belongs to the King!"
His voice rose again, regaining its earlier enthusiasm.
Nearby, Varys watched quietly, sipping his drink with a faint smile.
Beside him sat Karl.
Unlike the others, Karl remained low-key.
He ate slowly, barely touching the lavish spread before him.
Only a partially eaten lamb leg showed any sign of indulgence.
But his silence did not mean inattention.
On the contrary—
He was observing everything.
This banquet had taken two full weeks to prepare.
And despite the empty royal treasury, it had been executed flawlessly.
Karl had devised the solution.
He spread word that a grand feast would be held to celebrate the King's victory.
Merchants flocked to participate—competing fiercely for the chance to contribute.
In exchange, they received entry.
Standing tickets only.
No seats.
But none complained.
To them, this was an opportunity—a doorway into influence in a rapidly changing political landscape.
As for the nobles?
Karl had deliberately excluded them from funding the event.
Let them come as guests—not investors.
The hall itself was packed.
Music filled the air as a full royal orchestra played tirelessly.
Songs of wine.
Songs of women.
Songs of victory.
Robert himself soon left the throne, joining the crowd with a jug of wine in hand.
He became the center of attention instantly.
Laughter followed him wherever he went.
Meanwhile, Karl engaged in quieter pursuits.
Nobles approached him one by one, eager to curry favor.
He listened.
Smiled.
Drank.
And remembered.
Not their titles.
Not their boasts.
But their families.
Their lands.
Their wealth.
Their connections.
Piece by piece, he began mapping the intricate web of power that defined King's Landing.
"Boss."
A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
Karl looked up to see Kesi.
"Kesi," he said with a faint smile. "How have you been?"
Kesi scratched his head awkwardly.
"Lord Edd has taken good care of me. I've learned a lot."
Karl nodded approvingly.
But Kesi quickly leaned in.
"Actually… I came to ask something."
Karl raised an eyebrow.
"What is it?"
Kesi hesitated briefly.
"The war is over," he said. "The brothers… feel uneasy."
"Unaccustomed."
Karl understood immediately.
They had followed him through chaos and battle.
Now, with peace… they didn't know where they stood.
Karl lifted his cup, taking a small sip.
Before he could answer—
A loud crash echoed across the hall.
All eyes turned.
Robert Baratheon stood atop a table, wine sloshing from his cup, his face flushed with excitement.
"I declare—!"
His voice boomed across the hall.
"To celebrate this great victory…"
He raised his cup high.
"I will hold a grand tourney!"
The hall erupted.
Cheers.
Laughter.
Excitement.
And just like that—
A new storm began to gather.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)