"You know me?" Kal leaned forward slightly in the saddle, hands clasped on the pommel, his expression one of interest as he studied the lean mercenary.
"Perhaps you should tell me your name—mercenary who waits here so deliberately for me."
"My name is Bronn. But to you, honored Warden of the East, my name is nothing more than a trivial word, no different than the grass and flowers by the road."
Bronn spoke humbly as he introduced himself.
Hearing that name, Kal was momentarily taken aback.
He had long known that in this world, people's appearances bore no resemblance to what he had once seen in the show. Because of this, he had not immediately connected the man before him with the future Lord of Highgarden.
But when he heard Bronn speak with such humility, Kal narrowed his eyes slightly, though the smile remained on his lips.
"If you truly understand me, and not merely the title of Warden of the East you happened to overhear, then you should know that only a few months ago, I too was but a mercenary."
As he spoke, Kal's face curved into a faintly mocking smile, his gaze locked on the mercenary whose singing voice had been decent enough.
He was testing Bronn's reaction.
The words had an immediate effect. Bronn's eyes widened, his face twisting into an expression both exaggerated and tinged with genuine reverence as he looked up at Kal, seated high on his horse above him.
"Ser Kal Stone, honored Warden of the East!"
"These past months you've been riding ceaselessly for the realm, fighting on battlefield after battlefield. Perhaps you don't even realize how legendary your tales have become among mercenaries like us."
As Bronn spoke, his gestures grew fevered, almost theatrical, his eyes shining as he fixed them on Kal.
"I'd wager that if you stepped into any tavern or inn, and ordered yourself a mug of ale, by the time the drink was set on the table you'd already hear the stories about you being passed around."
"True, people's talk is still of all that has happened of late—kings, queens, kingslayers, lord paramounts, wars, even princes once thought dead are all grist for their gossip."
"But your story at the Inn at the Crossroads—your trial by combat, when you refused to bow to power and defended your honor—"
"You fought two Kingsguard at once, defeated them both, and upheld your name. For that, the king himself knighted you. The tale is still told with awe."
"And at Winterfell, you stopped the Kingslayer from persecuting Lord Eddard Stark's family, and exposed a Lannister plot of treachery against the realm."
"Then, in the wars that followed, you led from the front—just a few hundred horsemen under your command, yet you struck down the Lannister host's rampage through the Riverlands and saved House Blackwood."
"In the end, you even indirectly broke Tywin Lannister's siege of Riverrun, leaving him no longer able to threaten House Tully or the Riverlands. You even cut off his path back to the Westerlands, forcing him to hole up in Harrenhal and cling to life there."
"Minstrels are already composing songs of your deeds. People call you 'Kal the Just,' 'Protector of the Realm,' 'the true son of the king,' 'the knight who shattered conspiracy,' or even—'the rightful heir to the Iron Throne!'"
Hearing this flood of praise, Kal nearly lost his composure.
Faced with such a relentless barrage of flattery, even he struggled to believe he had accomplished so much.
Was it possible that common folk truly sang of him in such shameless terms? Or was this simply the mercenary called Bronn laying it on thick?
Forcing his features back under control, Kal kept a mask of calm, his smile fading as he looked at Bronn expressionlessly.
"I've done so many things, have I?"
"Perhaps you should know—if someone with ill intent heard those last words of yours, they might cut out your tongue."
But instead of fear, Bronn—who had worn a look of feverish admiration—suddenly grew composed.
He brushed his hand along the pommel of his sword, then stepped forward twice, closing the distance to Kal.
Leaning in slightly, his voice lowered but his smile never wavering, Bronn said, "Is it the Prince of Dragonstone you fear, or the Lord of Storm's End?"
"It seems you're not a fool," Kal gave a sharp laugh, exposing the mercenary's flattery for what it was.
Yet when Kal tested him, Bronn only pressed his lips together, then offered a faint smile.
"You're even wiser than I imagined. If I hadn't seen your face, I might have mistaken you for a seasoned great lord."
Kal answered only with a dry chuckle.
Straightening in the saddle, he tugged the reins, turning his horse around, though his eyes remained on the mercenary.
"All right then, Bronn. I don't have time for riddles. Since you've been waiting for me here, and have gathered so many men, I doubt it's only to heap praise on me."
"Speak—what is it you want?"
"I'm nothing but a lowborn sellsword. Beyond filling my belly, what else could I possibly want, my lord?" Bronn patted the longsword at his hip, flashing teeth that were neither straight nor white.
Hearing this blunt reply, Kal merely smiled, then pulled the reins and turned his head away.
His voice was calm as he spoke.
"Bring your companions. Take up your weapons. Mount your horses."
"From this moment on, what you achieve will determine how many gold dragons you can carry in your purse."
"And if you harbor greater ambitions, sellsword—then you had better prove to me that your deeds are worthy of them!"
Having recruited this band of mercenaries, Kal had no patience to linger.
With a glance at Hall, who had been at his side since earlier, he spurred his horse and continued down the road.
Watching Kal's departing back, Bronn's lean, time-creased face broke into a genuine smile for the first time.
"It is an honor to serve you, Lord Kal Stone."
After bowing respectfully toward Kal's back, Bronn turned to Hall as he drew near.
"And you, ser—how should I address you?"
Expressionless, Hall met Bronn's gaze. "Hall. And I'm no knight."
"You will be soon enough," Bronn grinned, baring uneven teeth, looking more confident than Hall himself.
To Kal, Bronn was only an interlude.
He was no Tyrion Lannister—unlucky enough to be seized by the half-mad Catelyn Tully at the Inn at the Crossroads, losing Riverrun through negligence, or forced in desperation to cling to an unknown sellsword for survival.
For Kal, Bronn had only one chance.
Whether he made use of it—or one day ended up a corpse from sheer misfortune—was of no concern to him.
With over two thousand men moving at forced march, Kal could not afford the luxuries he once had in the Riverlands, when he had fought wars with three horses to himself.
This time, even to secure a mount for each man, most had to be begged for, borrowed, or patched together by favors.
Still, it was enough to bring him swiftly to King's Landing.
Passing through Duskendale, he did not stop. Only at Rosby did he rest briefly for a single night, replenishing supplies, before setting out again at dawn.
When they had come within about 1.5 kilometers of the city, Kal ordered a halt, letting the men rest and prepare a meal.
"We will strike through the Dragon Gate. That will give us a rare advantage."
"And this battle will decide the fate of the realm."
...
After a full meal and sufficient rest, Kal gathered everyone.
The barbarians of the Highland clan rode their warhorses, weapons raised high, staring at Kal and at King's Landing in the distance. From their mouths came one excited roar after another.
Under such circumstances, Kal did not say much in his call to arms.
With morale this high, any more words would have been redundant.
Besides, even if he said more, these wild men would not understand.
So, after briefly explaining just how important this war was, Kal left them with a single promise.
"Will you trade the rags on your backs for the fine steel forged by the city's smiths?"
"Will you fill those ragged pouches of yours so full of gold dragons they cannot be closed?"
"Will you trample the heads of those arrogant knights who look down on you, seize their wealth, and take their women to do with as you please?"
"Men, take up your weapons—the spoils you gain will be as much as you can seize for yourselves!"
Kal dealt in promises of solid gold, never empty words.
And these blunt, direct lines did far more to stir these mountain savages than talk of the so-called meaning of war.
Listening to their surging roars rising higher and higher, Kal allowed himself a satisfied smile. Then he lifted his hand and put on the antlered helmet he always carried with him.
Since the steed beneath him was not Fawkes, for this battle Kal wore only a simple chainmail shirt—better than nothing. As he settled the helmet onto his head, his hand brushed subtly across his lips.
A potion of strength and a potion of energy went down his throat together.
Feeling the sudden surge of power coursing through his body—an extra fifth beyond his usual strength—Kal's spirit rose in kind. Reaching to his side, he hefted the massive warhammer that had been leaning against his horse.
As Kal raised it, his horse sidestepped nervously, clattering two steps away.
Kal tugged the reins, turning his body to face away from his gathered warriors.
"Forward!!!"
His bellow thundered like a storm, instantly drowning out the shouts of the two thousand men behind him.
For a heartbeat, their roars faltered—then surged back even louder, cheers and cries to their mounts filling the air.
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