The midday sun of King's Landing poured down like molten gold, turning the royal road into a blinding river of light.
Karl Stone adjusted his new deerskin gloves, flexing his long fingers until the tightness eased. The leather still carried the faint scent of the tannery — harsh and earthy. He clapped his hands together, brushing away the dust that had clung to the gloves, then turned to watch the glittering procession behind him.
The King's retinue stretched far down the road — a living river made of gold, silver, and steel. Banners shimmered like the surface of a restless sea, armor flashed in the sun, and polished helms reflected blinding rays. Horses snorted, restless in their gilt bridles, their hooves striking sparks from the stones.
From afar, the royal company seemed magnificent, but up close it had the sluggish stillness of half-melted amber — bright, heavy, and slow to move. Hundreds of courtiers, guards, servants, and nobles trembled in indecision, waiting for someone to command them forward.
Karl watched in silence. His deep blue eyes narrowed slightly; a thoughtful shadow passed through them and was gone. Whatever he had been thinking was fleeting, swallowed by the noise of the sea wind.
He turned away and leaned lazily against a wooden barrel stamped with the sigil of the Riverlands — a cask said to contain sweet red wine. He had no intention of joining the bustle. Whether the barrel belonged to the short Lannister dwarf or to the King himself — a man whose girth nearly equaled his height — he neither knew nor cared.
Technically, Karl was part of the royal entourage. In truth, his place among them was little more than that of a hired sword. A mercenary captain, leader of a small company of Free Riders who had sold their lances to the crown. Among the nobles who strutted in silk and fur, his rank was lower than the dust on their boots.
His task was simple — the kind of dirty, wearying work knights avoided. He and his men scouted ahead, cleared obstacles, and ensured the road was safe for His Majesty's progress. In the soldier's tongue of his former life, he would have called it cutting paths through mountains and building bridges across rivers.
On the smooth King's Road near the capital, such work was barely needed, but once they left the Crownlands and entered the Riverlands and then the frozen North, that would change.
Thinking of the long road ahead, Karl's gaze drifted back to the retinue, its air thick with pride and perfume. Golden banners fluttered in the sea breeze — the crowned stag of House Baratheon, the royal house of the realm. More than a dozen of them gleamed under the sun.
Karl had two such banners of his own, gifts from a solemn Kingsguard in white cloak and armor. He had been told to unfurl them only when necessary — when leading the vanguard through a lord's domain or signaling allegiance on the march. For now, they remained rolled and tied, like secrets waiting to be spoken.
"Boss!"
The shout broke through his thoughts. Karl turned his head to see a bearded man approaching — lean, sun-browned, wearing battered half-plate leather armor dulled by age and travel. His name was Kesi, a man of thirty, sharp-eyed and quick-witted, with the look of someone who had survived more battles than meals.
Kesi gave Karl a quick glance before looking toward the great royal host behind them. "Are we setting off soon?" he asked, doubt threading his voice.
Karl's lips curved faintly. "We wait for the King's command," he said. "Has Fox been brought over?"
Kesi shrugged. Standing beside Karl, he barely reached the captain's shoulder. Karl Stone was a giant — six feet eight inches tall, broad-shouldered and strong as an ox. His arms were thick as oak branches, his movements precise and graceful despite his size. His black hair shone like raven feathers, and his eyes — the deep blue of a storm over the Narrow Sea — carried an unreadable calm.
"Little Uin's getting your gear ready," Kesi said. "He's grooming Fox too. Should be here soon."
Karl nodded and looked past him toward the wagons and tents. His horse, Fox, was no ordinary steed. The animal stood taller than most destriers, its coat a dark red-brown that gleamed almost metallic when washed clean. A proud beast, bred for war, brought all the way from across the Narrow Sea.
Fox had once been a stallion — before a knife took its manhood. Karl still grimaced at the memory.
The horse merchant who sold it to him had claimed it was gelded to calm its temper — "a soldier's horse," he'd called it — easier to train, less likely to bite or kick. The gelding's price had dropped by five gold coins after Karl's haggling, yet it still cost thirty — enough to buy three fine steeds in Westeros or a suit of good armor and a sword besides.
He had named it Fox not for cleverness or speed but for something else he couldn't quite explain — perhaps for the flicker of intelligence in its eyes, or the way it seemed to mock him each time it snorted.
When he had first bought it in the Free Cities, the merchant had sworn the horse came from the Dothraki Sea. Karl often wondered if that were true, if the gelding remembered endless grasslands and thunderous hooves, or if it, like him, was far from everything it once knew.
Poor bastard, he thought. We both are.
"Captain Karl!"
The voice was higher this time, almost breaking with youth. Little Uin appeared, leading Fox by the reins. The boy's face was thin, his brown curls tangled, and the fuzz of a first beard shadowed his lip. Barely twelve, short and underfed, he looked half-lost in the armorers' cast-off tunic he wore.
He stopped before Karl and looked up, his eyes pleading. "Captain, can't I come with you? I can help! I can carry things, tend the horses, anything!"
Karl sighed softly. Even sitting on the barrel, he towered over the boy. He reached out and ruffled the lad's hair.
"The North is colder than you can imagine," he said. "When you've lived through your first winter, then think about traveling with soldiers."
The boy's face fell, but Karl's voice stayed gentle. He knew Uin's story — a sick mother, a younger sister, and hunger biting at their heels. Work was rare for smallfolk in King's Landing; the boy's job polishing armor and fetching water for the Free Riders had kept his family alive.
Kesi watched them with a crooked grin, one front tooth missing. "Listen to the captain, lad," he chuckled. "Only lambs born in summer think snow is soft."
Karl rose from the barrel, the sound of his armor clinking softly. He reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a small leather purse, and pressed it into Uin's hand.
"Take care of your family," he said. "They still need you. After we leave, go to Tobho Mott's forge. I've already paid your apprentice's fee."
The boy stared at the pouch, speechless. His eyes brimmed with disbelief, then gratitude. "Truly?"
Karl only smiled and took Fox's reins. The horse snorted, tossing its head. "Truly," he said.
Behind them, the royal horns sounded — a deep, booming call that echoed across the fields. The retinue began to stir. Men shouted orders, wagons creaked forward, banners rose in the wind.
The King was on the move.
Karl swung into the saddle with easy grace, his frame settling into place as if the horse were part of him. Around him, his Free Riders formed ranks — a rough company of thirty hardened men, sun-burnt and scarred, bound not by honor but by coin.
Ahead lay leagues of road and the chill of the North — and beyond that, perhaps, the beginning of his legend.
He turned once more toward the royal host. At its heart rode Robert Baratheon, broad and bearded, laughter booming like thunder. Beside him, the golden Queen shone like the sun — and somewhere near her side, her twin brother, the Kingslayer, smiled with a serpent's ease.
Karl's gaze lingered on them a heartbeat longer. There was power there, and secrets, and the faint, familiar scent of blood waiting to be spilled.
He grinned. "Come on, Fox," he murmured. "Let's see what kind of game we've walked into."
With that, he nudged the horse forward. The gelding snorted, muscles rippling, and the captain of the Free Riders ahead of the King's retinue — toward the road that would soon drown in snow and history.