Roasted whole cow was considered one of the most extravagant dishes in all of Westeros.
It was not merely a meal—it was a spectacle, a symbol of wealth and celebration. Preparing it demanded both time and labor. A whole ox would be skewered on a massive iron spit, lifted above a charcoal pit, and slowly rotated for hours without pause. Someone needed to watch it every moment, tending the fire, turning the spit, brushing the meat with butter, herbs, and wine until its skin turned crisp and golden, while the inside stayed juicy.
Because an ox was far too heavy, at least three men were needed to take turns turning the spit and watching the fire. It was a dish eaten only by great lords at grand feasts.
Karl had never tasted such a luxury. He had heard other hunters boast of it, calling it the highest indulgence a man could enjoy in this world. The closest he had ever come was a roasted bison leg with wild chives—a small plate shared among a few people, and even that had not been anything spectacular.
"I think I'm really looking forward to it…" Karl muttered to himself, smiling unconsciously as the anticipated flavor filled his imagination.
Robert, hearing him, burst out into booming laughter.
"Hahahaha! Good! Then come, lad—drink with me!"
He pulled Karl by the arm, dragging him to the long table at the center of the inn's hall. A waiting servant rushed over and filled their cups with fine Arbor gold.
Outside, the men of the Blackrock Mercenary Company were still standing dumbfounded in the courtyard. One moment their captain had been walking toward the inn; the next, he had been called away by the king himself—then silence. They had waited anxiously, minds filled with the queen's hostility, the death of Karl's patron Jon Arryn, and the uncertainty that had been gnawing at them for days.
But the moment the king's steward walked out to announce the reward of fifty gold dragons, the silence broke like a dam.
Fifty.
Golden.
Dragons.
For men who lived by the sword, who spent their coin as soon as they earned it, that was a fortune that could sustain even their reckless lifestyles for years.
Their hearts, which had been wavering moments earlier, were immediately calmed—no, purified—by the glittering promise of gold.
Mercenaries across Westeros were known to be unreliable, faithless, and greedy. But the Blackrock Mercenary Group didn't feel that reputation applied to them anymore. Not now. Not after witnessing their leader single-handedly convince a king to reward them, acknowledge them, and value them.
From this moment forward, they would remain loyal to one man:
Karl the Wheel-Turner.
Karl their Captain.
Karl their "Wheel-King."
All witnessed—and sanctified—by the golden dragon.
Karl himself was unaware of the excitement outside. Inside the inn, he and Robert had already gone through several rounds of food and drink. Robert Baratheon, a man who lived with the same enthusiasm he fought with, laughed loudly, slapped Karl's shoulder, and drank like a man determined to drain every barrel in the building.
Karl drank just as freely, though alcohol had long ceased to affect him. His strengthened body processed wine as easily as water.
As the night deepened, the earlier distance between him and King Robert Baratheon faded entirely. They spoke loudly, argued, laughed, and even mocked each other comfortably. You would think they were old comrades from the same battlefield.
Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps the atmosphere had simply grown right, but at one point Robert glanced across the table at something resting on a smaller side table.
Karl's longsword.
The king froze for a moment, then stood abruptly—with the unsteady movements of a man pleasantly drunk—and staggered toward it.
"Is this your weapon?" Robert scoffed loudly, picking up the sword with one hand. "This thin little knife? Something a woman uses to cut meat?"
He swung it lightly, disdain clearly visible in his eyes.
"Maybe you should try a hammer instead!"
Karl blinked. He had expected Robert's usual bluntness, but not… this.
Still, he was not offended. Instead, his expression became strangely thoughtful.
"Actually," Karl said honestly, "my primary weapon is a two-handed warhammer."
Robert froze mid-swing, eyes widening.
Karl continued, pointing at the longsword now in the king's hand. "But carrying a hammer around all the time isn't very convenient. A sword has more everyday uses."
He shrugged lightly.
For some reason—perhaps the wine loosening his tongue—Karl told the truth rather than hiding his abilities. With his cheat-like abilities accumulated from years of monster-hunting, his body had grown absurdly powerful. Even though reality had its limits, Karl still possessed strength far beyond any normal man.
His game-derived talents were extraordinary.
[Heavy Armor] made even the heaviest plate feel like a soft leather shirt.
[Two-Handed Weapons] granted perfect ambidexterity and overwhelming control of massive weaponry.
[Critical Strike], the strangest of all, allowed him to build "rage" and infuse a blow with an internal implosive force—almost magical, but still based on physical might.
And then there were the two mysterious talents never shown in the original game:
[Unburnt], which was already active,
and [Dream Journey], still dormant.
Robert, still holding the sword, grew even more amused.
"So you're not using a sewing needle!" he shouted, roaring with laughter. "Good! Very good!"
He lifted Karl's longsword again, examined it, then—unexpectedly—drew the blade fully from its scabbard and tossed the empty sheath aside.
"Your Majesty…?" Karl stood up, suddenly alert.
Without explanation, Robert stepped unsteadily toward the inn's door, sword in hand.
The guards in the corner all stiffened, hands drifting toward their weapons, but when Karl followed quickly, they hesitated. None of them wanted to be the one who interfered with the king's drunken whims.
Karl reached out to steady Robert. "Your Majesty, let me—"
But Robert brushed the helping hand aside and raised the sword, pointing its gleaming blade toward the courtyard outside.
By now, dusk had deepened into a magnificent blood-red sunset. Two or three hundred people were gathered around the roasting bison, eating, drinking, joking, and bragging.
But the moment Robert Baratheon strode out with a sword in hand, silence fell like a dropped curtain.
Every pair of eyes turned.
Every breath paused.
Sparks from the roasting pit rose gently into the darkening sky, glowing like drifting fireflies before fading into the wind.
Karl felt his heart tighten.
Robert turned to him, eyes shining with a mixture of drunkenness and solemn authority.
"Karl Stone! Kneel on one knee!"
A murmur rippled through the courtyard.
Karl's breath caught. He had suspected this was coming—but not so suddenly. Not like this.
He stepped forward into the open space Robert had indicated, his boots crunching softly against the dirt.
Then he placed his left hand over his chest, his right hand behind his back, took a half-step backward, and knelt on his right knee.
The tip of Robert's sword touched his right shoulder.
"In the name of the Warrior, I demand courage from you."
The blade lifted, passed over Karl's bowed head, and settled on his left shoulder.
"In the name of the Father, I ask you to be just."
The sword returned to the right shoulder.
"In the name of the Mother, I ask you to protect the innocent and the weak."
Then again to the left.
"In the name of the Maiden, I ask you to—"
Robert suddenly stopped mid-sentence.
Karl blinked, glancing upward. The king looked… confused. As though he had forgotten the next line.
It was possible he had already listed all the vows for the ceremony. It was also possible the wine had simply stolen the rest from his mind.
Either way, Robert abruptly lifted the sword back to his side, meeting Karl's eyes.
"Rise…" he said, voice thick but powerful.
"Rise, Ser Karl Stoner!
Knight of the Seven Kingdoms!"
A breeze swept through the courtyard, carrying with it the scent of roasted meat, burning charcoal, and the faint coolness of evening. Karl's dark hair lifted in the wind as he rose to his feet.
For the first time in his life, he was not Karl Stone, the nameless bastard.
He was Ser Karl Stoner.
A knight of Westeros.
A smile spread across his face—warm, genuine, proud.
But just as the atmosphere reached its perfect peak—
A sharp, furious, venom-laced voice ripped through the silence:
"You damned, lowborn bastard—what have you done?!"
The courtyard froze.
The joy shattered.
And Karl's newly knighted name had not even finished echoing before the storm broke.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)