"The new Grand Maester… is a young man."
Samwell Tarly leaned forward, breathing heavily after finishing his training. Sweat dripped down his face as he wiped it with a towel, his round cheeks flushed from exertion. Despite his exhaustion, there was a spark of excitement in his eyes as he spoke.
Nearby, Bronn took a long drink from his waterskin, looking entirely uninterested.
"A young man?" he repeated lazily, lowering the skin and glancing sideways at Sam. "What, fifty years old?"
His tone was thick with sarcasm.
"That's the first time I've heard someone call a fifty-year-old young."
Sam blinked, slightly flustered.
"He's forty-six," he corrected weakly. "Not fifty."
Bronn snorted.
"Oh, well then—forty-six. Practically a boy."
He picked up his iron training sword, giving it a casual swing.
"If he manages to live two hundred years, I'll admit you were right."
Sam opened his mouth, then hesitated. He knew arguing with Bronn was pointless, but something about this news mattered to him.
"Scholar Peyton has forged multiple links already," he insisted softly. "Black iron—for ravenry. Bronze—for astronomy and astrology. Copper—for history. Silver—for medicine…"
He trailed off, unsure whether Bronn was even listening.
"I said, enough," Bronn snapped, his patience finally thinning. "I don't care what links your 'young maester' has forged. You should just hope he doesn't make a mess of things."
Sam lowered his head, his excitement fading into quiet disappointment.
He had only wanted to share something good.
But he had chosen the wrong audience.
Before the awkward silence could stretch further, a calm voice cut across the training ground.
"Sam."
Sam looked up immediately.
Ser Karl Stone stood some distance away, holding a wooden training stick. In front of him was a trembling boy—thin, pale, and clearly miserable.
Robert Arryn.
Karl didn't even look at Sam as he spoke.
"If you want to become a maester, I can write you a letter of recommendation."
Sam froze.
"I'll even have the Prime Minister sign it," Karl added casually. "It would suit you far better than taking the black at the Wall. Though… I hear it's getting crowded there these days."
Sam's face lit up instantly, hope returning in full force.
"R-Really?"
But Karl had already turned his attention back to his student.
The Duke of the Eyrie was having a far worse time.
"Stand straight."
Smack!
The stick struck Robert lightly on the shoulder.
"Faster. Draw your sword properly."
Robert winced, tears pooling in his eyes.
"I—I am trying—!"
"Trying is not enough."
Smack!
"Again."
The boy's posture faltered, and Karl corrected him mercilessly.
"Remember this," Karl said evenly. "A thrust is the fastest way to kill. Direct. Efficient."
Robert swallowed hard, forcing himself to adjust his stance.
There was no comfort here.
No indulgence.
Not even from his own people.
Brynden Tully stood nearby, arms crossed, watching silently. He made no move to intervene, no matter how pitiful the young lord looked.
Robert had never suffered like this before.
In the Vale, he had been protected—pampered.
Here, he was nothing more than a student.
And a poor one at that.
The worst part was that no one objected.
Even the knights from the Vale, upon hearing of his harsh training, only smiled and praised Karl.
To them, this was necessary.
Robert's life had become a nightmare of discipline.
Five days a week under Karl.
The remaining days under other tutors.
Lessons in combat.
Lessons in etiquette.
Lessons in everything he had once ignored.
And if he failed—
Karl would know.
And the stick would follow.
Robert trembled slightly as he raised his practice sword again.
Karl watched him for a moment, then suddenly paused, as if remembering something.
He turned to Brynden.
"I heard there's a swordmaster from Braavos in the city," he said. "A former First Sword."
Brynden nodded after a moment.
"Syrio Forel."
"He's gained some fame recently in King's Landing. Many believe he came for your martial games."
Karl smiled faintly.
"Good."
He didn't hesitate.
"Send someone to find him. Tell him I want him to train these children."
Brynden raised an eyebrow.
"And if he refuses?"
"He won't."
Karl's tone was calm—but absolute.
"In King's Landing, very few refuse me now."
That wasn't arrogance.
It was fact.
As Master of Coin and Warden of the East, Karl's influence had grown rapidly. Merchants, nobles, even foreign envoys—everyone wanted his favor.
Even the famed courtesan Shataya had once offered her services freely.
He had declined.
That decision had amused some—and irritated others.
King Robert, in particular.
But Karl didn't care.
Power wasn't about indulgence.
It was about control.
"Also," Karl added, "the Stark children will be arriving soon. I think Lord Eddard will appreciate this… gift."
Brynden chuckled quietly.
Sam, meanwhile, had recovered enough to rejoin the conversation.
"Lord Karl," he said cautiously, "I heard Jon Snow has returned… but I haven't seen him."
Karl actually smiled at that.
"He's been busy."
Sam blinked.
"Busy?"
"At a brothel," Karl said plainly. "Prince Oberyn has taken quite a liking to him."
Sam's face turned red instantly.
"I—I see…"
"I'll be seeing him tonight," Karl continued. "Oberyn invited me to a feast. You can come, if you want."
Sam hesitated.
The Red Viper of Dorne…
That name alone was enough to make him uneasy.
"I… is that appropriate?" he asked nervously. "My father… fought against him once…"
Karl smirked slightly.
"If Oberyn held grudges like that, he wouldn't be who he is."
He paused, then added with a hint of mischief:
"Though he might mock you. And through you… mock your father."
Sam froze.
"Oh—and one more thing."
Karl's voice was almost casual.
"Varys told me your father is on his way to King's Landing."
Sam went pale.
The world seemed to darken around him.
Memories surged back—
Cold mornings.
Harsh words.
Blood on his hands.
Fear.
Karl watched him for a moment, then turned away.
Sam still had a long way to go.
Whether he became strong or remained weak—
That choice would be his.
Karl would not hold his hand.
Across the city, King's Landing buzzed with activity.
Nobles from every corner of the realm had gathered.
The Tyrells had arrived—Lady Olenna, sharp as ever, with her granddaughter Margaery, the famed Rose of Highgarden.
From Dorne came Oberyn Martell, along with his daughters.
Stannis Baratheon had returned.
Renly Baratheon followed soon after.
Even defeated lords from the Westerlands had come.
Everyone was watching.
Waiting.
The Iron Throne stood uncertain.
The queen was gone.
The succession unclear.
And Karl Stone—
The king's acknowledged bastard—
Stood at the center of it all.
Rumors spread like wildfire.
Would the king legitimize him?
Would he rise… or fall?
Karl didn't care.
Power wasn't granted.
It was taken.
And he was already taking it.
As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the training ground, Karl tapped Robert lightly with the stick.
"That's enough for today."
Robert nearly collapsed in relief.
"But don't forget your lessons after dinner," Karl added. "And apologize to the priest."
Robert stiffened again.
Karl turned away.
At that moment, a man hurried into the yard.
"Kesi?" Karl asked.
The steward bowed quickly.
"My lord, a message from the Prime Minister."
Karl's expression sharpened.
"There will be a court session tomorrow," Kesi said. "In the Throne Room."
"The Prime Minister requests your presence."
Karl looked up at the sky.
The calm before the storm…
Was ending.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)