By the time the welcoming procession met the returning army, it had turned into a grand victory parade.
All of King's Landing became a sea of celebration, swept up in the revelry.
At Robert's own gesture, Kal Stone mounted his companion brought from across the Narrow Sea and joined the triumphal march, becoming one of its central figures.
Kossi led forward the warhorse that Kal had left behind on the battlefield back when he first took command in the Vale.
After such a long absence, Fawkes displayed unmistakable affection toward Kal.
Kal stroked its head, and Fawkes nibbled gently at his hand with its large lips—man and horse answering one another.
As his palm traced the muscle beneath its coat, he noted that Fawkes hadn't grown thinner at all—in fact, it seemed even more robust.
Apparently, this fellow had been well fed during his time away. Mounting it, Kal joined the triumphal procession that had originally been meant solely for the King's return.
For a moment, from beyond the walls of King's Landing all the way inside, joy spread like wildfire ignited by flame.
People crowded along both sides of the broad avenue, cheering for the triumphant King and the army from the North.
From within the crowd, voices rose in chorus—shouts of "Winter Wolf Army!"
Eddard Stark, hearing those cries, instinctively turned to glance at the King, a faint smile appearing on his face before he turned back and waved to the surrounding crowd.
And the people cheered for the heroes as well.
Ser Kal Stone—Blood Wind Kal, the Lion-Slayer.
They called him by many names, pouring all their hopes into the triumphant host before them.
Flowers and praise became the melody of the moment.
The people sang of the victory belonging to the King and the Iron Throne—and even of their own survival, that the war was over.
Yet flowers and applause belonged to the victors.
Scorn and humiliation, of course, were reserved for the defeated.
The wagons bearing Tywin Lannister and other prisoners guilty of heinous crimes in this war were likewise displayed as spoils within the procession.
As for the Lannisters, the folk of King's Landing felt not the slightest affection.
Since the day the cruel and cunning lions had entered King's Landing at the fall of House Targaryen, they had never been loved by its people.
Thus, in the prison wagons, they stood in stark contrast to the victors and heroes at the front.
At the front were bouquets of flowers and songs of praise.
For them, there were only spitting and curses.
Rotten vegetables, foul eggs—
Even stones, decaying fish cast aside on the docks, horse dung, and chamber pots used during the night—all became weapons in the hands of the commoners to attack these once lofty figures.
Anything useless, any piece of garbage, turned into a tool for venting their fury.
Yet facing the assaults of the lowborn, within the prison wagon, Tywin Lannister merely lowered his eyes—those green irises tinged with gold.
He seemed utterly detached, a bystander calmly watching the scene unfold.
Only when some pickled filth was about to strike him did he move slightly, raising a hand to block it.
The noble lion was being humiliated by the rats of the gutter.
As for the people's outrage, the City Watch maintaining order around them could not possibly stop it—
Or rather, it was something the King had tacitly permitted. This was his triumph.
Thus, the northern soldiers escorting the prisoners only maintained minimal control over the situation without truly intervening.
They acted only when particularly dangerous projectiles came flying—
Such as stones thrown from who knew where.
The road from the Gates of the Gods to the Red Keep stretched across the entire city of King's Landing, passing the Great Sept of Baelor in the middle.
And the entire way, things remained the same.
The grand victory parade lasted for a full three hours before King Robert finally returned to his castle—to his throne.
"Ned, how many years has it been?"
The King held in his hand a gold cup larger and more ornate than anyone else's. Since returning to King's Landing, the corners of his mouth had not once closed—they were fixed in a broad grin.
"How many years has it been? I can't even remember the last time I was shown such love—"
"Perhaps it was right after I first sat on this damned, unbearable chair?"
The King spoke with sentimental emotion, yet his face remained locked in that same unrestrained smile.
With his free hand, he slapped the Iron Throne beneath him twice—
The Hand of the King, whose face looked even more weary, raised his head to glance at the King—already more than half drunk.
As the King's Hand, his seat was just slightly below the Iron Throne.
This was originally the chamber of the Small Council, but now only three men were present.
Aside from the ever-smiling spymaster Varys, sipping some unknown drink, the third was Ser Kal Stone—the bastard knight who, though not a council member, still held a place here.
Eddard furrowed his brow. Hearing the King's words, all that stirred in his stomach was a growling emptiness.
In truth, he had no desire to engage with the King, who had been loud and boastful ever since meeting Kal Stone.
So, when the cupbearer filled his glass, he merely lifted it in a token gesture and downed the wine in a few gulps.
Clearing his throat, the Hand finally spoke: "But Your Majesty, if I'm not mistaken, I don't believe you've ever been shown this kind of 'love,' have you?"
You, Robert Baratheon—a usurper.
On what grounds could you ever expect the love of the common folk?
If you devoted even one percent of the time you spend on pleasure to your duties upon that throne—
After saying this in his mind, Eddard silently swallowed the curses he could no longer hurl since Robert had become King.
So, when faced with the King's proud question, Eddard Stark put on the look of a man who had pondered long and hard, only to frown in troubled resignation before finally giving his answer.
Then, with a blank face, he added another jab.
"But as I recall, Jon Arryn was the one who was truly loved by the people."
Having been undercut like that, the already tipsy and overly pleased Robert's fleshy face sagged in irritation.
"Seven hells, Ned! Sometimes you've got to learn how to flatter your King!"
"And though you may be right, this honor now belongs to my son!"
"So it belongs to the King as well!"
The King's voice was not quiet—those nearby could all hear exactly what he said.
Varys quietly glanced toward Kal Stone, seated beside him, as if studying his reaction.
As for Kal himself, proudly praised by the King, he simply kept eating the food before him as though he had heard nothing.
Apart from a half-gnawed leg of lamb, almost everything else on his plate remained untouched.
But when Eddard heard the King's drunken words—already slurred with six parts wine—he suddenly froze for a moment, a faint change flickering across his expression.
He withdrew his gaze, sweeping it once around the hall before him, as if something had come to mind.
"You are right, Your Majesty—it belongs to you," the Hand replied, making no attempt to hide the perfunctory tone in his voice.
But to the King, that was enough.
He burst into laughter, downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, and without waiting for the servants to refill it, seized the wine jug himself.
Holding the jug in one hand and his cup in the other, he stepped down from the Iron Throne and merged into the clamor of the lively feast.
As for the Hand—who had now learned how to "flatter"—he lowered his head and began picking food from the table to fill his hungry stomach.
Wine could dull hunger, but food was still the most important.
No one noticed the flicker of contemplation that crossed his eyes as he looked down.
There was a question he had been pondering since leaving the North—one he still could not answer.
And as time passed, it only grew more difficult.
Once the two of them had moved on from discussing him, Kal finally stopped his feigned busyness, his gaze following the King as he vanished into the crowd beneath the five towers.
At last, he cast one more glance at the Hand before meeting eyes with the spymaster who had helped him prepare the feast.
Catching sight of those deep blue eyes, Varys offered a faintly obsequious smile and raised his cup in a toast.
Kal returned the gesture.
It was a feast that had taken nearly two weeks to prepare—a grand celebration.
Kal and Varys had reviewed countless details together and worked in smooth cooperation.
Except for money.
Because the royal treasury now contained nothing at all—so empty that even a rat would shed tears upon entering.
As for the Master of Coin who had been in charge of these finances, he had already been executed—cut in half as a warning—the very day Kal stormed King's Landing.
So there was truly no one who could take responsibility for this matter.
Fortunately, that sort of problem posed no difficulty for Kal.
He chose to spread word that he would hold a grand feast in the King's honor—to celebrate His Majesty's victory.
And at once, swarms of merchants eagerly volunteered to pay for the banquet themselves, even breaking into violent scuffles over the opportunity.
As for what Kal had to offer in return, it was merely an admission ticket that allowed them to attend the celebration.
Of course, it was standing room only—no seats provided.
But given the reshuffling of power now evident throughout King's Landing, those merchants were grinning from ear to ear, drinking and chatting merrily with anyone nearby.
No one cared what they were really up to; in any case, Varys was overseeing everything.
Kal trusted that Varys would handle it with diligence.
As for those nobles who were just as wealthy and could have easily borne the cost of such an affair—
Kal deliberately excluded them.
And as for the King—
He neither cared what the Hand was thinking nor paid the slightest attention to how this feast had been arranged.
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