Watching Tyrion's retreating back, Sam could only shrug helplessly, then turned to nod at the two Gold Cloaks who had followed behind him.
Clearly, the rough warriors of the mountain clans were nowhere near as patient or gentle as Samwell Tarly.
Receiving Sam's signal, the two burly men strode forward, blocking Tyrion Lannister like a pair of iron towers, just one step away from the Red Keep's gate.
"Sorry, dwarf, but Lord Kal's orders are to take you back!"
Before Tyrion's confusion could even fade, one of them reached out roughly, grabbed the dwarf by the collar, and with a single yank, the highborn dwarf was lifted like a helpless lamb—utterly without resistance, now a captive.
Then the brute slung him over his shoulder and carried him back toward the Red Keep.
Winded and breathless, Tyrion couldn't utter a single word; in his ears lingered only Samwell's apologetic voice of regret.
...
Having used his strength and reason to push through the dense crowd, Kal finally stepped free of the throng and let out a sigh of relief.
This kind of scene and this kind of fervor—truth be told, in both his lives, he had never experienced anything like it.
Surrounded by nobles and perfumed noblewomen, Kal had, for a moment, the strange illusion that he himself was some kind of delicacy.
Everyone seemed eager to take a bite out of him.
More than that, they all seemed to regard him as a prime stud horse, frantically trying to push their daughters—or whatever women they could—into his arms.
Seeing such madness, Kal seriously suspected that if he had spoken aloud and asked for another man's wife, that very man might go straight to the sept, beg a septon for a divorce, and send his wife over to him without delay.
Facing this horde of people crazed like the living dead, and those eyes that looked as if they wanted to devour him whole, Kal could think of only one thing to do—run away as fast as possible.
To be honest, he found this experience far more unbearable than fighting on the battlefield.
After all, on the battlefield, all he needed to do was raise his hammer or draw his sword, and he could make those who shouted at him fall silent forever.
But here, his only weapon seemed to be that stiff smile.
Walking down the now-empty corridor, his face felt so numb he had to raise a hand and rub his cheeks before finally feeling a little better.
But while he moved unconsciously, wanting only to escape the surging crowd, Kal at some point had already wandered into the godswood within the Red Keep.
There, he suddenly saw a graceful figure ahead.
Kal halted, dazed for a brief moment, then prepared to turn and leave.
Yet a pleasant voice called out to stop him.
The figure had clearly noticed his arrival.
"Ser Kal, do I appear so frightening to you?"
Margaery's voice was beautiful—like the clear chime of silver bells, or the song of birds in the morning.
Kal of course recognized who she was. But precisely because of that, he had intended to turn and go.
Unexpectedly, however, this "Rose of Highgarden" had spotted him as well.
"Your beauty is beyond compare, Lady Margaery Tyrell. I daresay even among the flowing gardens of Dorne, you would still be the fairest rose."
"I owe you an apology for my discourtesy. I only feared I might disturb your peace."
Seeing that he couldn't escape, Kal helplessly stopped, turned around, offered a few words of flattery, and added a polite explanation for his rudeness.
Hearing such shameless praise, Margaery was clearly delighted.
She covered her mouth and laughed softly.
The green silk gown upon her swayed gently, the jewels adorning it glimmering and rippling like waves.
Kal glanced at her with courtesy—and thought she wasn't quite as striking as the half-elf baker from his game world.
Hmm. That woman had been about three times Margaery's size.
Margaery had no idea what Kal was thinking. After laughing, her mood seemed to brighten further.
She stepped toward him with light, graceful steps.
But when she came to stand before him, she realized she only reached his chest—she had to tilt her head slightly just to meet his gaze.
She didn't mind; in fact, she drew even closer.
The heady scent of his masculine presence made her slightly dizzy.
"Ser Kal, you're so strong. I've heard tales of your valor on the battlefield. If it's not too much to ask, could you tell me those stories yourself?"
Margaery Tyrell's gaze was hazy, her eyes moist and gleaming, as though they could draw silken threads from the air.
As she spoke, she subconsciously swallowed.
Margaery Tyrell was exceedingly beautiful, lively, and charming. At sixteen or seventeen years of age, she was in the very prime of youth.
It could be said that Kal's praise of her was by no means exaggerated.
As the Little Rose approached him, nearly pressing against his chest, Kal could even feel the faintly floral warmth of her breath.
She had brown eyes that fluttered and glistened with moisture.
Her figure was graceful, willowy, and supple to the touch.
Together with the close-fitting, exquisitely styled green silk gown she wore, her skin appeared as fair as moonlight, at once dewy and tender, as if it could break at a touch.
Even more striking was her soft, voluminous brown hair, shining in the light.
Standing in the corridor before the godswood, a shaft of sunlight fell upon her side, as though she had been touched by some special radiance.
Kal was not wrong—if she were a flower, she would indeed be the most beautiful bloom in the garden.
Yet, despite Margaery Tyrell's forwardness, Kal merely smiled and quietly regarded her.
He neither retreated nor leaned closer, his heart as calm as still water.
He simply stood where he was, his gaze scarcely shifting.
"I'm a rough man," he said. "Back in the Eyrie, I only learned a bit of writing from the maesters—barely enough to put words to paper. For that, the maester often scolded me, saying I had a head like an elm knot."
"Lady Margaery, if you wish to hear tales of the battlefield, you should seek those singers with pleasant voices."
"For if the scenes were to come from my mouth, they would likely give you nightmares—and I would feel guilty for that."
Hearing Kal's words, Margaery froze slightly.
She had not expected him to refuse her.
Although Kal's tone was gentle and his excuse sound enough, the clever young woman keenly sensed a faint discord.
It was as though the man before her did not wish to have much to do with her at all.
From the very first moment he had seen her, his instinct had been to turn and leave, showing no trace of reluctance.
This made Margaery Tyrell—who since childhood had always been treasured and adored like a precious jewel—feel an unfamiliar curiosity toward Kal.
"Ser Kal doesn't seem to like me very much?"
Margaery's brown eyes moved slightly as she smiled, not angry but candid, asking him directly.
That did take Kal by surprise.
He had not expected his polite refusal to be met with such a straightforward question.
He could not tell whether this Highgarden Rose had come here alone to wait for him—
Or if it had truly been by chance.
Or perhaps House Tyrell had begun to entertain certain intentions, hoping to invest in him—
Just as in the original work, after Robert Baratheon was killed by a boar, they had once done with Renly Baratheon.
These thoughts passed through his mind, yet outwardly, Kal only smiled faintly.
"Is Lady Margaery planning to visit the godswood within the Red Keep? The scenery here is quite fine, and it's one of the few places where one can escape the clamor and feel at peace."
Kal did not choose to answer Margaery's question directly. Instead, he diverted the topic elsewhere.
It seemed he truly was somewhat curious as to why the Rose of House Tyrell—Margaery Tyrell—had appeared here.
However, when faced with Kal's evasive words, such a diversion was hardly effective against this young, clever, and quick-witted Highgarden Rose, who since childhood had been tutored by the shrewd and calculating Lady Olenna Redwyne.
The Little Rose smiled playfully, directly exposing Kal's intent. "Ser Kal, you're quite cunning. You must act this way toward other women as well."
Kal was not offended; instead, he calmly performed a knight's salute. "In the presence of your beauty, I feel only shame for my own unworthiness."
Margaery giggled, covering her mouth.
"You are now the King's personally appointed Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and also the King's Master of Coin—Lord Kal Stone."
The intelligent Rose of Highgarden naturally understood what Kal Stone meant by his words, and she took the opportunity to offer a subtle reminder of her own.
Her meaning was clear—Kal was qualified.
And Kal, of course, understood the implication just as well.
Yet he chose without hesitation to reveal his own flaws.
"But until today, I wasn't. Even a few months ago, I was just a free rider who licked blood from the edge of a blade—a bastard who didn't know who his father was, and whose mother was of low birth."
After saying this, Kal smiled slightly, using a practiced tone and manner that made the conversation impossible to continue smoothly, speaking with this Highgarden Rose who had approached him for reasons still unclear.
Sure enough, faced with Kal's way of speaking, even Margaery was momentarily at a loss for words, unable to think of how to respond.
After all, Kal was right—no matter what heights he had now achieved, half a year ago he had still been a commoner of humble origin.
And in order to keep their "pleasant" conversation from stalling entirely, she could only helplessly follow his lead and return to the question he had asked earlier.
"All right, my lord of Casterly Rock. Having just witnessed your investiture by the King himself in the throne hall, my heart was stirred."
"As an ordinary girl who admires you, and to calm my overly excited heart, I intended to go to the sept within the Red Keep to pray. It's simply my habit."
As Margaery spoke, she covered her mouth with an expression of self-reproach, while her gaze toward Kal was filled with the excitement and adoration of one who had met her idol.
Then, she naturally stepped back half a pace and turned to look toward the grove of elm, oak, and poplar trees before her.
The most prominent and largest among them was a great oak, its branches covered with smokeberry vines.
It seemed to be the heart tree of this place.
"But it looks like I may have lost my way. So this is the godswood of the Red Keep? Yet I don't seem to see the heart tree anywhere."
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