A few seconds later, Kal finally withdrew his laughter.
"If it's within my power, I'll be sure to speak well of you before the King, Lord Varys. Only from that position can you truly realize the value of your life's work." As he spoke, Kal raised his hand slightly toward Varys, gesturing with the cup of milk.
"With such a promise from you, it seems I'll never have to share company with a dwarf." Varys offered praise, a glint flashing deep within his eyes.
Kal smiled. "No one knows whether tomorrow or misfortune will come first, Lord Varys. I can't give you any promises."
Still wearing that pleasant smile, Varys merely glanced around at the Gold Cloaks nearby. "You're right, Ser Kal."
Kal had no idea what his implication was and brought the milk to his lips.
"Mhm~ yes, it's delicious."
"I'm glad you like it."
The two, neither truly trusting the other yet working together with uncanny harmony, exchanged subtle words before the Gates of the Gods in King's Landing.
Under the blazing summer sun, before those gates, everyone watched from afar as the procession grew nearer and nearer at the edge of sight.
As the heat shimmered in the air, the weary crowd's mood seemed to grow more restless.
The black-on-gold crowned stag banner of House Baratheon fluttered in the wind, borne forward by the King's knights.
Behind it followed the white field of House Stark, upon which the silver-gray direwolf of the North ran across the snow.
The banners lined up ahead.
Then came the others.
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
Bearing all these titles, King Robert Baratheon I rode upon his massive warhorse—one of the few beasts sturdy enough to carry his great bulk—approaching the Gates of the Gods at a steady pace.
The King's personal guard and the Gold Cloaks of the city watch had already cleared an open space before the gate.
Around them, tens of thousands of onlookers gazed intently, their eyes bright with fervor.
Kal Stone, Warden of the East, and Lord Varys, Master of Whisperers of the Small Council—both stood as the representatives of King's Landing, waiting respectfully at the gate.
The warhorse stopped before them, no more than ten paces away.
It halted.
From atop his mount, the King's calm, solemn gaze turned toward them.
"Your Grace!"
Upon seeing the King, Kal knelt on one knee, bowing his head in perfect form.
It was the proper etiquette for an audience before the monarch.
Varys followed suit.
Yet as one of those most responsible for the loss of King's Landing, even though he was still a member of the Small Council and one of the realm's highest ministers—
Yet at that moment, Varys chose to drop to both knees, pressing his entire body onto the dust-covered road, bowing fully toward the King.
Although he was only the Master of Whisperers, and the defense of King's Landing was never his duty, he had still failed in his role.
Thus, at this moment, his bright, fine silks were no different from the peasants' rough burlap rags.
Tens of thousands of eyes watched in silence, their hushed murmurs and breathing melding into a single restrained sound.
The black warhorse snorted, scraping the ground before it with its lone dark hoof.
Watching the two who had come out of the city to greet him, Robert sat silently upon his warhorse, lowering his gaze upon them.
The King's silence made the air turn strange for a heartbeat—and in that instant, everyone in the crowd could feel a tension like the calm before a storm.
The whispers stopped.
At that very moment, as they faced the King's unreadable expression—
Hall suddenly snapped to attention. He glanced around, then fixed his eyes on a Red Keep official standing nearby.
Quietly, without a word, he edged closer, nudged the man aside with his shoulder, and swiftly snatched the mounting stool from his hands.
Carrying it, he hurried to the front of the King's horse.
Lowering his head, Hall set the stool down.
Then he stood beside the horse, raising his arm in a posture ready to assist.
Behind the King, Eddard Stark had already dismounted on his own.
Seeing the movements of Kal Stone's attendant, a faint smile tugged at his lips—though he quickly hid it.
The King was no fool; he, too, had noticed Hall's conspicuous action.
Yet he did not stop him. His eyes swept over the man who had stepped forward of his own accord.
He knew this one as well—one of the capable men his bastard son had somehow gathered in King's Landing.
There were about a dozen like him within the returning host.
The most notable among them, and the most outstanding, was a man named Kossi.
Dogtooth Kossi?
Yes, that was the name.
Releasing the reins, the King placed his hand on Hall's arm, stepped down onto the stool, and dismounted from his warhorse.
Once steady on his feet, he swung his great arm.
"Five golds as reward!"
Hall's face lit up, and he dropped to his knees. "Thank you for Your Grace's reward!"
"Hahahaha—!"
The King's laughter, thunderous and booming, broke the heavy silence.
Then Robert strode directly toward his bastard son.
"Do you know what you've done, Kal Stone!"
The King's voice was still deep and powerful.
"Of course, Your Grace!"
Kal's tone carried neither arrogance nor humility.
Looking at the young man before him, the corners of Robert's mouth curved upward. He lifted a finger. "Stand, Kal Stone."
Kal silently rose to his feet but kept his head slightly bowed.
Even so, he could still meet the gaze of the King—a man only a little shorter than himself—
and see the grin half-hidden beneath the King's thick beard.
Kal's own lips curved faintly as he spoke in a steady voice: "Reporting to Your Grace, I believe I have not disappointed you."
Before him stood his son—handsome, confident, and composed—a man who carried seven-tenths of Robert's own youthful self.
The more Robert looked, the more satisfied he became.
"Of course, Ser Kal."
"Do you know what you've done?"
"A great deed! You've become the hero of stories and ballads!"
King Robert declared loudly, his thunderous voice booming as if afraid others might not hear him.
Behind him, Eddard Stark, who had been watching his old friend's performance the entire time, couldn't help but twitch the corner of his mouth.
"It was Your Grace's wisdom that allowed me to achieve such a miracle."
If possible, Kal thought his answer could have passed any civil service interview in his previous life.
But clearly, the man before him wasn't one to enjoy flattery.
"I don't recall you being the type for slick words—that's the work of sycophants. Are you planning to throw away your title and honor to work as a pimp in a brothel?!"
Robert's expression was fierce, like a father chastising his son.
So Kal could only shrug helplessly, withdrawing his attempt at praise.
"Well then—fine. I'm equally glad I succeeded, Your Grace. I did not fail the mission!"
At that moment, Eddard Stark stepped forward from the side.
"We should all be grateful to you, Kal. You helped countless people."
"You thwarted Tywin Lannister's schemes and brought this war to an end."
"Not only those within King's Landing who survived Kevan Lannister's threats—but for all that happened on the battlefield, and for all of us—you deserve our thanks."
Eddard's expression was solemn. Clearly, he wasn't offering polite words.
Facing the calm and steadfast Lord Stark, whose temperament differed completely from Robert's, Kal placed a hand over his chest.
"It is my honor."
Kal's humility brought a smile to Eddard's face.
This child he had once held in his arms had grown into neither an arrogant nor boastful man.
He carried his own quiet modesty; his conduct and bearing were those of a true knight.
"It's our honor as well, Ser Kal," Eddard said, bowing his head respectfully.
"All right, Ned—enough of that sentimental talk," Robert interrupted with clear impatience.
He had little fondness for such exchanges.
If there was to be gratitude, he preferred it over a table of wine—that was what he called genuine feeling.
Then he abruptly seized Kal's right hand, turned around, and faced the crowd gathered to welcome the King.
"Let us cheer for the hero!"
The King's voice was anything but ordinary—his thunderous roar echoed all around.
And at the very moment of his arrival, King Robert Baratheon raised high the right hand of the man who had saved them.
The surrounding crowd—many uncertain whether they had come to see Kal Stone or the King himself—first froze in brief astonishment, and then, in the next instant, an earth-shaking roar erupted like a tidal wave.
The air trembled. The sound rolled forth in crashing waves.
Kal, who had not expected Robert to do such a thing, was completely unprepared.
As the cheers directed at him surged from all sides, he was momentarily stunned.
He, of course, knew what he had done.
And as the man who now held full control over King's Landing and commanded its military forces, he certainly understood how the voices of the city's lower classes regarded him.
Kal did not know whether someone behind the scenes had helped fan this momentum.
He did not bother to find out—for such voices were clearly to his advantage.
Yet as someone who had once lived in a modern world, Kal understood all too well that drawing too much attention was never wise.
Thus, during this entire period, Kal had kept to seclusion within King's Landing,
rarely appearing in public, hoping in this way to let the waves stirred by his deeds gradually subside.
But to his surprise, after all this careful restraint, the very first thing King Robert did upon his return was to thrust him straight back into the spotlight—to crown him as a hero, standing beneath the brightest beam.
To be honored by a King in such a manner—there could be no higher glory.
And this method—so public, so grand—made it all the more so.
Yet amid this storm-like wave of cheers, Kal, standing in its center, could not help but feel his heart stirred.
That feeling—
Kal's lips curved into a faint smile. He chose to accept it.
Meeting Robert's gaze, he raised his left hand as well and waved it forcefully.
"Kal Stone!"
"Kal Stone!"
"Blood Wind!!!"
"Blood Wind Kal!"
"We love you—you're our hero!"
"Hero! Hero!"
Amid the roaring cheers, countless voices shouted all kinds of things—but every single one of them was for Kal, for their hero.
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