The sudden sound shattered the eerie silence like a stone breaking the surface of still water.
Cersei, who had just delivered a harsh accusation against Karl Stone, turned sharply toward the speaker. Her expression darkened the moment she recognized the voice. Her eyes filled with cold disdain as she glared at the disgrace of House Lannister—her younger brother.
"Tyrion," Cersei hissed, her tone dripping with venom. "The Seven would never create a 'demon.'"
Her meaning was clear. Tyrion, in her eyes, was not a child blessed by the Seven at all—merely a curse. A line that sounded polite on its surface, yet was more poisonous than a dagger hidden in silk.
But Tyrion Lannister appeared entirely unfazed. If he felt any sting, he did not show it.
Instead, he strolled forward with an exaggerated gesture, arms spread, one brow arched in helpless amusement. "My beautiful queen sister," he said, feigning innocence, "is that another accusation aimed at me?"
He gave a short sigh, as though deeply troubled. "Personally, I always thought the fact that the Seven allowed me to survive childhood was already their divine judgment."
He flipped Cersei's insult effortlessly, sending it rolling back to her feet before she had time to react. His tongue was as quick as ever—perhaps a bit too quick.
After tossing his verbal dagger, Tyrion stepped forward with a respectful bow toward King Robert Baratheon. His voice grew polite, almost warm, as though the tension in the courtyard did not exist.
"It truly warms my heart that my dear sister remembers her dwarf brother," Tyrion said lightly. "Even if she does not seem particularly fond of me."
"But, of course, before indulging in family affection, I must properly greet His Majesty."
He bowed again, hand pressed against his chest.
"Good afternoon, Your Majesty."
A pause.
"Oh… pardon me. I now realize it is already evening."
Another bow, this one deeper and more apologetic.
Then Tyrion pointed delicately toward the longsword King Robert held pressed against Jaime Lannister's throat. "I fear I may have arrived in a panic," he confessed. "After all, Your Majesty's hand seemed to tremble ever so slightly… and I worried for the safety of my only brother in this world who shows me even the slightest affection."
"So I beg you, Your Majesty—have mercy, set down your sword, and forgive whatever offense he may have caused in that unfortunate moment."
"After all," Tyrion added with an impish smile, "the tears of a half-man bring nothing but laughter to others. They lack all the magical properties the old tales describe."
His tone was light, witty—but the sincerity beneath it was unmistakable.
He bowed for a third time.
Perhaps it was Tyrion's plea, or perhaps Robert had simply calmed, but the king finally exhaled, the fury in his eyes dimming. With a grunt, he allowed Tyrion's intervention to serve as a step down from his rage and lowered the blade. The courtyard collectively exhaled in relief.
Robert would never kill Jaime Lannister. Even in his anger, some lines remained unbroken.
But after lowering his sword, he did not look at Tyrion. Instead, he turned toward Cersei—the queen who had just loudly declared that Karl Stone was Robert's illegitimate son, and then accused him of attempting to murder the crown prince.
"What is this nonsense?" Robert growled. "I don't want this turning into some kind of ridiculous farce."
His voice had grown heavy and dangerous.
He knew Cersei well. And he recognized the smell of jealousy when it clung to a woman like fog.
He did not deny that Karl might be his bastard. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew Robert had fathered more than one child outside his marriage. He barely remembered acknowledging the boy, sending him to be raised in a small keep without ever once visiting.
But the accusation that Karl—whom he had just knighted—had tried to murder Joffrey?
Absurd. Illogical. Simply madness.
Joffrey could be difficult, yes. But Robert loved his son fiercely. He would never brush aside a real threat to him. Yet Cersei's accusation felt wrong—born not of truth, but venom.
And Robert Baratheon despised being manipulated.
He opened his mouth to roar another reprimand—but Tyrion pounced on the moment.
"Your Majesty, please," Tyrion said quickly. "This is all a misunderstanding. Joffrey fell into the river, caught a chill, became frightened, and… well… when fear mixes with fever, a child may say many things that make no sense."
The explanation was short, concise, and—most importantly—believable.
Tyrion then turned to Cersei. "And my sister, acting as a loving mother, surely misunderstood him in her distress."
"I am willing," Tyrion said dramatically, "to apologize to Ser Karl Stone on her behalf."
Tyrion had spoken so quickly, so sharply, that Cersei had no time to cut him off.
The spectators, who moments earlier were frozen in confusion, suddenly found clarity. The tension loosened. Whispering spread like fire across dry grass.
"So Joffrey was just feverish…"
"That makes sense."
"Karl has no reason to harm the prince."
"If he wanted Joffrey dead, he could've let him drown."
The logic was simple. Brutal. Undeniable.
If Karl truly had murderous intent, Joffrey would never have returned.
Realizing the truth, people began to look differently at Cersei—less with sympathy, more with suspicion. And their eyes lingered on Karl, now an unexpected figure of interest.
Robert finally understood everything. His fury, no longer aimed at Karl, now fixed entirely upon Cersei.
He nearly struck her across the face. His raised hand trembled. But with so many eyes watching, he lowered it.
Instead, he issued a punishment just as humiliating.
"Go back to your damned palace, woman!" Robert roared. "And stay there! Keep your spoiled son under control, and stop spreading jealous lies!"
He turned to Jaime and Tyrion. "Take her away. I don't want to see another Lannister tonight."
The matter seemed settled. People began breathing again.
But then—
A cold laugh cut through the air.
Cersei.
"Do you know why I called that bastard dangerous?" she said with icy contempt. "Because he has blinded your foolish eyes with his lies."
Robert froze mid-step.
Tyrion's relief evaporated instantly.
Jaime approached to drag Cersei away—but she slapped him. Hard. The sound cracked like a whip across the courtyard.
Jaime stood stunned, hand on his cheek, staring at the woman he'd loved his entire life. But she only looked back with disappointment.
"Jaime," she said quietly, "you don't love your family at all."
The words pierced deeper than any blade.
The crowd grew alert again—sensing more drama.
Robert turned back, face red with fury. "Perhaps I should gag you and lock you in a cage," he snarled.
Cersei only laughed. "Idiot."
"Are you so certain the truth is what you think it is? You trust a nameless bastard more than your own son? Do you truly believe Joffrey, who is always under Sandor Clegane's protection, would fall into the river so easily? And conveniently be saved by your bastard?"
The crowd stirred.
Someone whispered, "Where was the Hound?"
Rumors flew.
"That drunk fool Sandor was unconscious."
"No—didn't Karl pull him from the river too?"
"Why was the Hound drunk on duty?"
"Why didn't he save Joffrey?"
The narrative, once simple, now tangled again.
Robert demanded, "Where is Sandor Clegane?!"
Before the guards could reply, Tyrion answered.
"I checked on him," Tyrion said grimly. "He is still unconscious. Soaked, cold… and reeking of wine."
"And Joffrey as well."
He added quickly, "Several farmers confirmed that Joffrey demanded food and wine from their house earlier. Your steward can verify it."
Silence fell.
Everyone stared at Tyrion in awe. Once again, he had uncovered the truth faster than anyone else.
Robert inhaled sharply, fighting to contain his rage. His gaze slid to Karl, who had remained silent through all accusations—calm, steady, unshaken.
"Karl Stone," Robert said quietly, "speak. I will not allow jealousy to tarnish the honor I granted you today. Whoever lies—no matter who they are—will answer for it."
Tension thickened like fog.
Cersei's expression shifted subtly. She was cornered—but not defeated. A glint of cruel determination lit her eyes.
Karl finally stepped forward, meeting the king's gaze calmly. Then he turned toward Cersei.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice steady, "I have never known who my father is. Nor did I ever care."
Robert stiffened, but Karl continued without pause.
"In the face of the queen's accusations, I have no clever words to defend myself. I believe she has prepared far more than I could ever refute."
He lifted his chin, the torchlight reflecting in his eyes.
"So I will not defend myself with excuses."
"I leave my fate to the Seven."
Karl's voice rose, clear and resolute.
"Therefore… I demand a trial by combat!"
The crowd gasped. Torches flickered. Even Tyrion's eyes widened.
Karl stood tall, unflinching, his declaration ringing across the Crossroads Inn like a warhorn.
And with those words, the night transformed—
from accusation,
to judgment,
to battle.
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