Watching Kevan's retreating back, Kal fell silent for a long moment. Only when an eerie quiet settled did his gaze fall upon the Master of Whisperers Varys and Petyr Baelish, the two privy counselors before the king.
Then his eyes began to narrow slightly.
Timett noticed this at once, raised the blade in his hand, and, exercising his own initiative, said, "My lord, shall we slaughter them?"
As he spoke, Timett could not help licking his dry lips.
Ever since following Kal, he had discovered his master had a small habit: when he felt the urge to kill, his eyes would unconsciously narrow.
So when he said these words, he had already moved closer.
Standing with him, Bronn was a beat slow to react.
He did not quite understand what the situation before him was, his mind still replaying the earlier conversation between Kal and Kevan Lannister, trying to grasp its meaning.
So it was only after Timett had taken several steps forward that he came to himself, lifting his longsword to prepare to kill.
A privy counselor—he had never imagined that one day such a great figure would die before his eyes.
All the more, now he even had the chance to strike the blow himself.
Faced with Timett's volunteering, Kal, who had still been hesitating inwardly, wavered for only a moment and then tacitly approved Timett's choice.
Seeing that Kal was actually allowing his rough men to move to kill them, Varys and Littlefinger were taken aback at once.
"My lord Kal, let's talk this out, let's talk this out!" Varys hastily begged for mercy.
He had never imagined Kal would suddenly turn on them and burn the bridge behind him, and hurried to plead.
But he had barely opened his mouth when a cold longsword was already laid across his neck.
Feeling the chill at his throat, Varys could not utter another word.
There came a gulping sound as he swallowed a mouthful of saliva.
As for Littlefinger, he was even more direct.
Before Timett could approach, his knees gave way and with a plop he fell before Kal.
Then, crawling forward in tears, he clutched Kal's knee.
"My lord Kal, spare me, spare me, don't kill me, I haven't seen anything!
"No, I don't know anything, I was still locked beneath the dungeon until you, Lord Kal, defeated Kevan Lannister and rescued me!"
"Lord Kal, you are my savior!"
Even after being captured and imprisoned by Kevan Lannister for such a period, Littlefinger still carried himself with an air of elegance hard to erode—yet here he was, decisively kneeling before him.
Kal, for a moment, did not even react to how soft this fellow's knees truly were.
Born with an innate talent for money and trade, and an unmatched master of intrigue and schemes.
After chuckling twice, Kal reached out and helped the Master of Coin up from the ground.
And he earnestly reassured him: "Lord Petyr, what are you saying? How could I possibly wish you harm?"
"You must know, I still remember that the King granted me a great sum of gold dragons entrusted to you, as much as ten thousand gold dragons!"
"So how could I bear for you to be gone—who else would hand me that money?"
As Kal spoke, his tone of comfort shifted faintly into one of sentiment.
For those ten thousand gold dragons had only been bestowed upon him by Robert a few months ago.
Yet speaking of it now, it somehow felt as if an age had passed.
Back then he was still a lowborn bastard, a nobody whom no one cared about, a sellsword licking blood from the blade just to survive.
And now he had stepped into the ranks of the nobility, a knight bearing the title of Warden of the East.
Moreover, under his command stood a force of some two thousand soldiers, tied to clans of the mountains numbering at least tens of thousands who were willing to follow him.
At present, one could say that aside from lacking only a tract of land fit for development, he wanted for little else.
And all this had come to pass in just these few months.
Littlefinger, who had all but despaired at seeing Kal's murderous intent, now lit up the moment Kal himself mentioned money.
At once, it was like grasping his final straw to cling to life, his eyes brightening.
"Of course, of course, Lord Kal, rest assured. At the time His Majesty specifically wrote to entrust me with this, so I had long since set aside the sum for you."
"Now that you have come, I will certainly deliver it to you with the utmost speed!"
On Littlefinger's face, once twisted with grief, a smile now unconsciously appeared.
He had not expected Kal to bring up money at such a moment—yet when it came to money, was there ever an issue before him?
Quick-witted and fast to react, Littlefinger was no fool; he rushed to answer Kal, declaring that the sum was already prepared.
Terrified that any delay might offend this god of slaughter.
Hearing this, Kal nodded with satisfaction, then raised his hand and patted his shoulder with the expression of a teacher finding a promising pupil.
"Then I must trouble you, Lord Petyr. My household and affairs are indeed large now, with no shortage of places that demand coin."
Kal smiled with narrowed eyes as he spoke, gesturing toward the soldiers he had brought in with him.
Yet after the pleasantries, his smile had not even faded when he turned his head toward the two halves of Grand Maester Pycelle on the ground.
With a tone tinged with regret, he said: "Alas—damnable Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, to be so crazed as to dare murder Grand Maester Pycelle!"
"Pity I came a step too late—ah!"
Kal sighed in lament over Grand Maester Pycelle's death, smiling as he casually shifted the blame onto the dead Mountain.
To hear the string is to know the tune—Littlefinger froze at first, but his reaction could hardly be called slow; in less than a breath he instantly grasped Kal's meaning.
At once he too put on a sorrowful expression, likewise turning his gaze toward the Grand Maester's head split in two, eyes bulging in death's refusal.
"Yes, my lord, Grand Maester Pycelle was already aged, yet who would have thought the Mountain would be so cruel as to kill the realm's maester, a frail old man without the strength to bind a chicken."
"His crimes are beyond counting, utterly inhuman!"
As Littlefinger spoke, his face was filled with indignation, as though he had witnessed the matter himself.
And after denouncing the Mountain's "crimes," Littlefinger immediately turned back toward Kal, plastering a fawning smile across his face.
"Fortunately, Lord Kal, you arrived in time—otherwise even I might have perished."
Seeing how well this fellow played along, Kal was all the more delighted, throwing back his head in hearty laughter.
He nodded once again, his smile all the more sincere. "Lord Petyr, with you in the realm, it is a blessing for the Seven Kingdoms."
Yet just as Littlefinger, hearing these words, beamed with joy and humble modesty—
Kal turned his head instead, looking toward Varys, whose neck was already pressed by Bronn's sword, waiting only for Kal's command to slit the eunuch's throat.
"Oh, Lord Varys, I nearly forgot about the matter you promised me outside the city."
With cold steel against his neck, his body rigid, Varys already understood that Kal Stone meant to silence him. He had thought that once the Warden of the East struck a bargain with Littlefinger, his own death was certain.
Sweat streamed down the eunuch's face, despair already weighing heavy as he awaited the arrival of death.
Yet unexpectedly, Kal did not order his execution, but instead, bizarrely, spoke of something unrelated to the present moment.
This made Varys blink in surprise, his mind failing to catch up for an instant.
Kal did not speak in riddles, but continued on from before: "So I wish to ask, regarding the murder of Jon Arryn, did Lord Petyr Baelish have a hand in it?"
The smile on Kal's face did not waver in the least, as if he were merely asking the Master of Whisperers what he had eaten for breakfast.
The Master of Coin, his face still fixed in a sycophantic smile, froze the moment Kal's words left his lips.
His pupils contracted, disbelief flashing in his eyes.
But before he could speak, Varys, sword at his throat and ready to die with a single word from Kal, heard those words and involuntarily blinked, then instinctively nodded.
Seeing him nod, Kal's smile only grew brighter.
"That is good."
"Alas, what a pity, Lord Petyr. I truly wished to grant you a chance, but it seems you do not cherish it."
Though Kal was still smiling, the tone of his words was steeped in regret.
Yet in his voice, the chill was sharp enough to pierce bone.
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