Game of Thrones: Bastard? I’m the Damn Heir!

The sudden voice shattered the eerie silence.

Cersei, who had just delivered harsh accusations against Kal Stone, turned her head sharply at the sound of that distinct voice. Her expression darkened as she glared at the disgrace of House Lannister.

Even if that disgrace was her own brother.

"Tyrion?!" Cersei sneered coldly. "The Seven would never create a 'demon.'"

The implication was clear: Tyrion had nothing to do with the Seven.

A line that sounded refined on the surface but was, in truth, an exceptionally vile curse.

Yet Tyrion seemed completely unfazed by the venom beneath her words.

On the contrary, as he walked forward, he spread his hands and raised his brows in a helpless gesture, casting a look at Cersei that was almost amused.

"My beautiful queenly sister—am I being accused as well?"

"But I'd like to think that if the Seven let me live, perhaps They've already passed Their judgment!"

With just a few well-placed lines, Tyrion had flipped her insult on its head.

A move he performed with such practiced ease it bordered on artistry.

And so, after casually deflecting Cersei's barb, he stepped forward with a cheerful smile and faced Robert Baratheon, offering the king a respectful bow.

As if entirely unaware of the suffocating tension hanging over the scene.

"I'm honored my queenly sister still remembers her dwarfish brother, though she doesn't seem particularly fond of me…"

"But before anything else, I believe it's proper to first greet our King, as etiquette demands!"

"So—good afternoon, Your Grace!"

"…Ah—my apologies. I didn't realize it was already evening!"

Tyrion gave another bow, hand over chest, as if sincerely apologizing for his blunder.

Only then did he point to the sword Robert held pressed against his brother's neck.

"And so I fear I was simply overcome with worry for the one man in this world who truly loves me—my dear brother—whose fragile throat might've been cut by your hand should it tremble even slightly!"

"So, Your Grace, if I may beg your mercy… For the sake of a poor dwarf who has only one person in this world who cares for him…"

"Would you kindly, in your great compassion, lower your blade and forgive him for the unintentional offense he's caused you?"

"After all, a halfman's tears do little more than draw laughter from others—they certainly don't work any strange magic, like in those old tales…"

Though Tyrion's words were laced with wit, the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable.

And after pleading for his brother Jaime Lannister, he bowed deeply to the king once again—a third time, this one as earnest as the last.

Faced with the Imp's entreaty, Robert calmed a little, the alcohol in his blood seeming to lose some of its grip.

With a cold snort, he accepted the excuse Tyrion had offered him and lowered his longsword.

After all, he couldn't really kill Jaime Lannister.

But even after lowering the sword, he didn't look at the dwarf who now visibly relaxed with relief.

Instead, his eyes turned toward his queen—the woman who had just declared Kal Stone was her bastard, and had leveled such damning accusations against him.

"What the hell is going on?!"

"This better not be some pathetic charade!"

Robert's fury was still boiling, his voice heavy with rage.

He had long known what kind of person Cersei was, so now he roughly pieced things together.

As for her claim that Kal was his bastard—Robert didn't even bother to deny it.

After all, who in the Seven Kingdoms didn't know he had bastards scattered across the land?

And more importantly, he simply didn't care.

Even his only acknowledged bastard, he never really looked after—just kept him tucked away at Storm's End and left it at that.

However, what he couldn't ignore were the accusations Cersei had made against Kal.

One was his bastard son—whom he had just knighted.

The other was his legitimate heir, his firstborn son.

And the charge of attempting to murder a prince—in some respects, it was even graver than treason.

Though Joffrey's temperament could be extreme at times, Robert couldn't deny one thing: he did love his son.

But now, Cersei was accusing his bastard of trying to kill his legitimate son?

It was absurd. Pure, illogical jealousy.

And the more he thought about it, the angrier Robert became.

Because the moment Cersei made those accusations, it didn't matter if they were the jealous lies of a resentful woman—

—or if, as she claimed, they were the result of Kal Stone's wicked deceit.

Either way, it was a direct challenge to his authority.

So this time, Robert didn't hold back for the sake of appearances. Right there in front of everyone, he barked at her with a thunderous roar, his tone seething with fury.

But before Cersei could hurl more venom at Kal—

Tyrion, who had actually heard the entire confrontation from the edge of the crowd, and had already decided how to intervene, stepped in smoothly to pick up where the king had left off.

"Your Grace, please—this is truly just a misunderstanding…"

"It all began with Joffrey falling into the water. He was frightened, chilled, and shaken…"

"His mind was in a haze from the shock and cold, and that's how those confusing words came out!"

With just a few lines, Tyrion laid out the core of the incident.

He then turned, pointing at Cersei, whose face was still twisted with resentment.

"But I think we all understand—after such a scare and a freezing soak, any child might start rambling nonsense. It's nothing to be taken seriously."

"Chances are, Joffrey himself has no idea what he was saying…"

"And as for Cersei—well, she's simply a mother who loves her son. She must've panicked and let her emotions get the better of her."

"I'll even offer an apology to Ser Kal Stone on her behalf."

Tyrion spoke rapidly, giving Cersei no room to interrupt, racing through the explanation to settle the matter before it could spiral further.

He had no desire to let this explode into a full-blown scandal. After all, it involved his family—and his dearest friend.

Besides, from where he stood, this was the truth. He'd been there. He'd heard it himself.

Maybe in another time and place, he might've turned the whole thing into a delightful tale over wine.

But only a madwoman like Cersei could have taken it so literally.

Or perhaps, he was simply using the situation to make a point.

But regardless of what his motives were, Tyrion would never stand by and watch as his friend was framed by Cersei.

So he had no choice but to step forward decisively.

And as soon as Tyrion finished speaking, the onlookers began to grasp the full picture of what had happened.

The courtyard, which had been eerily silent under the weight of Cersei's absurd accusation, now broke out into a low hum of chatter.

People who had been too stunned to react were now murmuring among themselves.

"No wonder the queen was so furious. Turns out Prince Joffrey was just delirious with fever after falling into the water—said some nonsense, and she misunderstood…"

"I knew something felt off about all this…"

"And come on—why would Kal Stone have any reason to harm Joffrey? What possible motive would he have?"

There weren't many brilliant minds in the crowd, but neither were there any true idiots.

As Tyrion's explanation settled in, the fog began to lift, and the confusion Cersei had stirred finally started to clear.

Some began thinking along the same lines as Tyrion, piecing things together, and it wasn't long before they reached a simple, logical conclusion.

First of all, Kal had absolutely no reason to commit such a thankless and risky act.

Even if Cersei's story had been true, the biggest flaw was obvious—if Kal Stone had really wanted to kill Joffrey, why would he save him?

Joffrey had indisputably fallen into the water. That much was certain.

And if Kal had murderous intent, all he needed to do was pretend to try saving him.

The prince would've vanished quietly into the river, swallowed by nature—just another tragic tale for the bards.

If Kal truly wanted it, he could've simply done nothing. Looked the other way.

And no one would ever think to tie the prince's death or disappearance to a mere mercenary rider.

It was all too clear. The logic clicked effortlessly into place.

Moments ago, Cersei's outburst had left everyone dazed. But now, after a moment of clarity and reflection, the flaws in her story were laid bare.

It became obvious—Cersei was being unreasonable.

As for her motives?

Instinctively, all eyes turned toward Kal.

The king's bastard from the Vale—a juicy bit of gossip, certainly.

And now, with the queen's jealousy thrown into the mix, the drama was even more delicious.

Meanwhile, Robert, whose forehead was still pulsing with fury, finally caught up to the turn of events himself.

His gaze toward Cersei darkened, thick with hostility. For a moment, his hand rose instinctively—ready to strike.

But perhaps he remembered where they were: outside, under countless watchful eyes.

So instead, with a sharp snort, he let his hand fall and withheld the "honor" he was about to bestow upon his queen.

He chose words instead—loud, furious ones.

"Get the hell back to your damn wheelhouse, woman!"

"And listen—stay in that godsdamned wheelhouse for the time being. I don't want to see your face!"

"And keep a closer eye on that son you're about to ruin with all your coddling—and I don't want to hear one more word of slander born from your damned jealousy!"

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