"The Stadium?"
Walking leisurely amid the cheers and gazes of the crowd, Tyrion—who had been slightly distracted—was taken aback by Kal's sudden remark.
"What does that mean?"
Poor Tyrion had never heard such a word before. He was always curious as to what exactly was inside Kal's head, which constantly produced such clever and peculiar ideas—and occasionally even new and unheard-of words.
Yet Tyrion's sudden question momentarily left Kal himself at a loss.
After all, he had merely spoken the phrase subconsciously, out of habit.
Kal chuckled lightly, then explained, "It's a place built for contests, gatherings, and celebration. A place where people can test their strength and skill without the need for war."
"It's open to all—lords, knights, or commoners—anyone who wishes to compete or simply watch. Don't you think King's Landing could use something like that?"
As he spoke, Kal's tone was bright and confident; he deliberately slowed his pace and waved frequently to the surrounding spectators in greeting.
Then, taking advantage of a pause while greeting the crowd, Kal tilted his head toward Tyrion again.
Tyrion, as sharp as he was, caught a faint implication in Kal's words the moment he spoke so casually.
"You intend to develop this idea further?"
"And why is that?"
Tyrion could not comprehend Kal's purpose in doing so. Bound by the limits of his era, how could he possibly think beyond those confines?
To this, Kal only gave a faintly mysterious smile.
Then he spoke of an idea that had come to him recently—after completing his own armor.
"Tyrion, have you ever considered that perhaps, in the not-so-distant future, disputes between powers might no longer need to be settled through violence—through war—to determine victory and divide interests?"
"Perhaps we could resolve the conflicts of the nobility in a more civilized manner—through events like the tournament we are holding today?"
Kal spoke lightly, yet his words were utterly beyond imagination—startling enough to shake the soul.
At his side, Tyrion—who had moments ago seemed indifferent and composed—now widened his eyes in disbelief.
But before he could speak, question, or stop Kal from continuing, Lord Kal El went on as though wholly unaware of what he had just implied.
His eyes gleamed, yet his expression was grave, his tone as if describing a beautiful vision.
"Look at how this latest war, which ended without true resolution, has already turned the Riverlands into a wasteland."
"Yet the fruits of victory have been divided among the noble factions of interest, while those who suffer are the smallfolk—people who could scarcely survive to begin with."
"They have lost their wealth, their lives, everything they struggled for their entire lives, without ever knowing why."
"And from beginning to end, nothing that happened ever had anything to do with them."
Kal spoke words he should not have spoken, laying bare the essence of certain matters—exposing them under the blazing sun for all to see.
So when Kal finished, Tyrion's eyes were not only wide—his mouth hung agape in stunned silence.
He quickly came back to his senses, glanced around in panic, and hurriedly lowered his voice toward Kal. "Kal, do you know what you're saying?"
"Listen, I don't want you repeating such words to anyone else. I want you to forget them. After all, I have no wish to become anyone's enemy."
Though he did not fully grasp the concept of "class," Tyrion—by nature part of the upper class and possessing a deep understanding of both himself and the world—could easily comprehend the essence of what Kal's words represented.
So once he realized it, his first instinct was to hurriedly warn Kal.
He was not doing it to defend his own class.
As a dwarf—one who had, without reason, lost everything in the war—such things had little to do with him personally.
Yet he could not help but worry for the still-young Kal.
For he could subconsciously sense just how dangerous such ideas truly were.
It felt as though someone were circling a sharp blade around the back of his neck.
Seeing that Tyrion had so keenly grasped the core of his meaning, Kal could not help but cast a deep glance at this "giant" of a small man.
Then, grinning, he shook his head unconcernedly.
"Little dwarf, I'm not a fool. As someone who had to fight with everything I had just to climb to this position, I wouldn't be stupid enough to betray my own class."
"Besides, this sort of thing isn't something that can be done simply because one wishes it."
"What I said was merely that perhaps we could use such a method to lessen some of the meaningless disputes between nobles."
"At the very least, it would be more civilized, more harmonious, and better suited to everyone's interests, wouldn't it?"
Kal patiently explained his thoughts to Tyrion, trying to convey his belief that contests could one day replace bloodshed among nobles.
Seeing that Kal truly wasn't losing his mind, Tyrion subconsciously let out a sigh of relief.
He suddenly realized that ever since Kal had become Lord of Casterly Rock—and since he himself had chosen to follow him—he seemed to live constantly on edge.
Fortunately, the thought passed quickly, without giving him any notion of resignation.
As for Kal's naive idea, after silently pondering for a moment, Tyrion decisively shook his head.
"No, I don't believe your idea carries much meaning."
"After all, for nobles, whether it's honor or profit, both must be won by the sword."
"If you think disputes can be peacefully resolved through something as childish as this, I'm sorry, but I don't share your optimism."
To Tyrion, Kal's naive idea was almost laughable—he nearly asked whether the man had even woken from his dreams.
Honestly, he could not quite understand how someone as intelligent as Kal could utter such an absurd notion.
By reason alone, a man as shrewd as Kal should have seen through the nature of such things.
What cannot be won on the battlefield cannot be gained by any other means—that much, Tyrion knew all too well.
But despite Tyrion's dismissal, Kal clearly had no intention of giving up so easily.
"No," Kal shook his head again. "It isn't without precedent, Tyrion. Do you still remember trial by combat?"
"Perhaps I could merge something like that with these contests—these games. At the very least, it would reduce needless bloodshed, wouldn't it?"
"If we spread it properly and let more people recognize the value of such contests, then over time, wouldn't people come to see disputes in a different light?"
Kal's words grew ever more idealistic.
And when Tyrion heard him link trial by combat—a sacred and solemn rite upheld for thousands of years—with something as undefined and experimental as these 'games,' he nearly thought Kal had gone mad.
"If you're running a fever, please tell me beforehand. I can have a Maester take a look before your brain burns out completely."
Tyrion had run out of patience to argue with him any further.
No matter how he thought about it, this was not something that could ever happen.
To compare trial by combat with these new games—
and to even speak of merging them?
That was sheer delirium.
One was an act of divine faith—solemn, sacred, and bound to the will of the gods.
The other, a form of public amusement—no different from a troupe's performance in a marketplace.
How could the two possibly be mentioned in the same breath?
Unless Kal became a god himself and ensured that the entire realm worshipped him instead of the Seven or the Old Gods, perhaps then his wild idea might have the faintest chance of coming true.
Tyrion, being a man of reason, regarded Kal's vision merely as the nonsense of an overheated mind drunk on success.
Yet Kal didn't seem to mind his disbelief.
After all, it had only been a sudden thought, not something he had taken too seriously.
Because Kal knew that if he truly wished to realize such a dream, it would only be possible if he became strong enough to crush all resistance and dissent—then rebuild the laws and compel people to follow them.
Which, of course, was rather laughable.
"But people ought to have dreams, shouldn't they?"
With a faint smile, Kal waved to the onlookers around him while muttering softly under his breath—words Tyrion could not quite make out.
Meanwhile, riding a short distance behind them, Samwell Tarly—who had remained silent and withdrawn all this time—listened to Kal's words with a thoughtful look in his eyes.
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