Hearing him mention the dragon, and noticing that his gaze toward Robert was also somewhat off, Kal's eyes flickered almost imperceptibly before he turned his head to look at Maester Noren.
"Maester Marwyn possesses profound expertise in medicine and the occult. He is the author of The Lost Books."
Seemingly troubled by the situation before him, Noren rubbed his brow as he introduced to Kal who the newcomer was.
However, he did not go into detail about what exactly was going on between the two men or the nature of their hostility.
At the introduction, Kal paused for a moment. He did not recall who this person was, but he did not let it show on his face.
Instead, he spoke frankly, "I welcome all scholars who are willing to converse with me, because I wish to better understand the Citadel."
"In my view, knowledge is power."
"Knowledge is power?"
The moment Kal finished speaking, the several maesters present were all taken aback instinctively, exchanging looks with one another.
They clearly had not expected such words to come from someone as young as Kal—especially given that he was also the infamous battle maniac known throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
At present, there was no dispute whatsoever over the fact that the greatest martial force in the Seven Kingdoms was Kal Baratheon.
And correspondingly, on the other side of possessing such overwhelming strength, it naturally gave rise to certain subjective preconceptions.
However, fortunately, the several maesters did not act discourteously. Upon realizing that the man before them might be closer to the Citadel than they had initially imagined, Noren promptly stepped forward and said politely, "This truly is a maxim of the highest truth—one that could even be taken as a motto or aphorism of the Citadel itself. Your Grace, King Kal, your understanding of knowledge and your reverence for it may well surpass our own."
And seeing that King Kal Baratheon did not reject him because of his ugly appearance or because of the words of these gray-robed sheep, but instead even took the initiative to invite him, Marwyn was unable to suppress the excitement on his face.
"To receive your recognition is my supreme honor, Your Grace. You have brought truth and miracles into this world."
Marwyn's flattery was delivered with practiced smoothness, but Kal merely smiled and waved his hand, not taking it too much to heart.
Then, turning his head to look at the group, he suddenly spoke, "If the Citadel is willing, I can, in the name of the king and the kingdom, provide support and investment for the Citadel's various researches."
While they were conversing amicably, they were suddenly struck by a windfall that seemed to fall from the sky, and the several archmaesters were once again taken aback.
At this moment, including Marwyn, the group all fell silent for a brief time. None of them dared to rashly agree to the matter.
This was no small affair.
Indeed, if Kal's promise were truly to be carried out, it would mean something of pivotal importance to the Citadel.
That a kingdom would support the Citadel's research and invest in it—the exceptionally intelligent men present could all perceive the significance contained within, and the profoundly far-reaching impact that was fundamentally beyond imagination.
But at the end of the day, this was ultimately a good thing.
At present, the several maesters of the Conclave could not help but begin to feel excited.
"Your Grace, this matter is of great importance. May we be permitted to confer internally and arrive at a concrete position? Please do not misunderstand, Your Grace—we are not refusing you. It is simply that this matter… well, you understand,"
In the end, it was Noren who stepped forward to respond to Kal's expectations. His expression was solemn, and he displayed full sincerity and humility.
"I very much look forward to it, and I hereby assure both you and the members of the Citadel that my commitment will remain forever valid."
"Just as it once did for Baelor Targaryen I, the 'God-Blessed.'"
Kal looked at the group, feeling no burden at all as he painted a grand vision, earnestly outlining the future he envisioned for this matter.
With these words, compared to just moments before, the expressions on the faces of the several maesters of the Conclave were no longer merely polite, but had grown far more cordial and sincere.
Even the glances they occasionally cast toward Robert behind Kal were no longer so barbed.
"I swear to you upon my honor that I will do my utmost to advance this matter."
"That will suffice. Before that, I hope we can have a thorough symposium."
"Of course."
And so, right before the Citadel, the several maesters of the Conclave and Kal lightly concluded an exchange of interests.
Neither side voiced explicit demands, but there was no denying that it was evident both parties were pleased with the outcome.
And just as Kal and the several doctors were engaging in a pleasant exchange, the rulers of Oldtown—the Hightower family of the towering beacon—hurried at full speed and finally arrived at the place where the dragon had descended: the gates of the Citadel.
The head of the Hightower family, commonly known as the Old Man of Oldtown, Lord Leyton Hightower, arrived in great haste at the place where Kal was, accompanied by his guard.
The soldiers instinctively closed in, and a group of five or six people from the Hightower family, led by Leyton, came to a halt before Kal.
The maesters of the Conclave and Kal timely ceased their conversation, and everyone present—along with the dragon—turned their gaze toward the newcomers.
An intangible pressure surged forth. Leyton, as well as others including the one known as Laughing Baelor—Baelor Hightower, Leyton Hightower's eldest son and heir—could not help but have their expressions change.
"Is this the attitude you take toward me, or is this the attitude you take toward the Iron Throne?"
Watching the Hightower nobles ascending the steps with their cloaks in hand, before they could even speak, Kal seized the initiative and spoke first.
As his words fell, Robert craned his neck and slightly opened his mouth. A faint sound of thunder rumbled in secret, and at such close range it made people's hearts throb uncomfortably.
Especially with the faint glow blooming within that opened mouth, and the sparks that leapt from time to time around the nostrils and lips, all of it served as a reminder to those who had come that the words of the black-haired, blue-eyed man before them were no joke.
In an instant, it was as if heaven and earth fell into sudden stillness.
A shadow of death and storm-laden clouds on the brink of breaking pressed down upon everyone's hearts.
No one had expected Kal to show the Hightower family so little courtesy upon their very first meeting—let alone to deliver such an undisguised show of force.
Yet after a brief moment of shock, the archmaesters of the Citadel all tacitly chose to remain silent.
Maesters do not involve themselves in politics—this was the guiding principle of the Citadel.
Each of them repeated those words silently to themselves and, without exception, chose to stand aside as observers.
Under Kal's unapologetic display of intimidation, coupled with the looming threat of the dragon, Leyton found himself unable to take another step forward. He stood frozen at the foot of the steps before the gates of the Citadel, cold sweat pouring down his face as he looked up at the godlike man and the dragon towering above him.
Just how powerful the dragons of House Targaryen were, how many feats they had accomplished, and what manner of creatures dragons truly were—there was perhaps no one in the Seven Kingdoms who understood these matters better than the Hightower family.
Perhaps, after more than a hundred years had passed, people no longer held those ancient histories close to heart.
But as for the renewed Battle of the Field of Fire that had taken place barely over a week ago by the banks of the Mander, beneath the walls of Highgarden, the Citadel and the Hightower family—whose access to information was unmatched—knew every detail of it with absolute clarity.
Looking at the man before him, and recalling his unannounced arrival, his circling show of dominance over Oldtown's skies, and now his direct approach to the Citadel instead of the Hightower family's own castle—
Leyton felt an overwhelming pressure bearing down on him.
"No… Your Majesty Kal Baratheon, I believe you must be misunderstanding something."
"With regard to King Robert's final decree and your lawful claim to the Iron Throne, the Hightower family has, from beginning to end, fully acknowledged it. In fact, from the very start, House Hightower has stood in support of you."
"On this point, I believe you should be able to perceive our sincerity, Your Majesty. As for the call issued by the rebel Renly Baratheon—whom our liege lord, House Tyrell, chose to follow—our stance has always been one of refusal."
Leyton wiped the cold sweat seeping from his brow as he spoke in hurried succession, terrified of provoking the clearly hostile Kal standing before him.
He dared not imagine how horrifying it would be if the firestorm of dragonfire were to descend upon House Hightower and Oldtown instead.
Listening to the explanation given by the man before him, Kal remained silent. There was no change in his expression or in his gaze, making it impossible to discern what he was thinking.
This silence lasted for several minutes.
By the time Robert's jaws had begun to slowly open, faint bluish smoke and scorching heat seeping from within, the tension had become unbearable.
Sensing the danger of a bow drawn to its limit—afraid that the situation might tip into open violence at the slightest misstep—Maester Noren finally could not withstand the pressure and stepped forward to speak.
"Your Majesty, please believe in House Hightower's loyalty—to you, to House Baratheon, and to the Iron Throne."
The old man steeled himself and stepped forward to play the mediator, his heart filled with unease and apprehension.
Yet with his sudden intervention, the congealed atmosphere unexpectedly eased.
The severity on Kal's face vanished in an instant, like frost melting under a spring breeze.
"Since Maester Noren says so, I am willing to trust in the honor of the Citadel."
"But from the words of Lord Leyton Hightower, House Hightower has chosen me?"
"If that is the case, then why have I never seen even a single act of sincerity from you?"
Toward the Citadel, Kal showed ample courtesy.
But toward House Hightower, he was not nearly so accommodating.
Seeing Kal speak with such blunt clarity, Maester Noren no longer found it appropriate to say anything further.
Political matters, in the end, had to be resolved through politics.
The Hightower father and son who had come to "welcome" Kal were no fools. They naturally understood the meaning conveyed between Kal's lines.
Kal: I am not someone who can be placated by pleasant words. What I want to see is your "sincerity" and your "attitude."
The "thunder" rumbling within Robert's chest grew ever louder, and the temperature in the air continued to rise—so much so that the members of House Hightower could only lower themselves, draw the swords at their waists, place them crosswise before them, and drop to one knee.
"I, Leyton of House Hightower, in the name and capacity of Lord of House Hightower, swear fealty to the King upon the Iron Throne—the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm—King Kal Baratheon I."
After House Hightower formally acknowledged Kal's rule, Robert closed his jaws as well, leaving only the occasional sparks flaring from his nostrils to proclaim his presence.
Seeing House Hightower submit before him, the cold expression that had lingered on Kal's face since their arrival finally gave way to a smile.
"In the name of the Iron Throne, I, Kal Baratheon I, accept House Hightower's fealty."
Kal stepped forward two paces, took the sword that Leyton Hightower was holding aloft with both hands, and lightly touched it to his shoulder—signifying the acceptance of House Hightower's oath.
Only after the rite was complete did Kal, smiling, help Leyton to his feet.
"My apologies, Lord Leyton. I hope you can forgive my caution."
Kal spoke words of courtesy utterly devoid of sincerity, offering consolation with equal insincerity.
But what else could Leyton say?
Beyond returning the smile in kind, there was nothing he could do.
So he bowed slightly at the waist.
"Your Majesty, you have traveled far and must be weary. House Hightower has prepared a banquet at the Hightower, and we hope to have the honor of your presence."
"It would be my honor."
Kal accepted this "goodwill" with satisfaction.
Yet immediately afterward, he turned his head to look at the several archmaesters nearby, who had just finished watching a spectacle of politics and pageantry.
"However, before that, I have already made an arrangement with the maesters. So if possible, I hope Lord Leyton can invite these maesters to join us as well."
"Of course."
With host and guest both pleased, the knightly detachments that had been on guard after the dragon's descent upon Oldtown transformed into an escort of honor. They surrounded Kal and his party as they left the Citadel, passed through the streets, and strolled along the Honeywine toward the Hightower.
Along the way, everyone's gaze would from time to time drift upward to the golden dragon circling and soaring above Oldtown.
Bathed in the afterglow of the setting sun, that silhouette appeared both sacred and majestic.
As the group walked amid light conversation, guiding Kal through the sights of Oldtown and occasionally introducing the features of various locales, Baelor Hightower suddenly stepped to Kal's side. Looking up at the sky, he asked with an air of eager anticipation: "Your Majesty, should we prepare some food for your dragon, Robert?"
"Please believe us—we can certainly provide proper hospitality for your dragon. House Hightower possesses many records describing their existence. I have heard that their favorite food is goats?"
Baelor was handsome and carried himself with refined grace, yet as he gazed up at the dragon, he appeared almost childlike.
Faced with his attentiveness, Kal merely shook his head calmly.
"There is no need to concern yourself with it. Compared to being fed by others, Robert prefers to hunt for himself."
Kal did not elaborate further. With that single, offhand remark, he let the matter pass and continued his warm conversation with the maesters present or with Leyton.
The carriage rocked gently as it moved forward. As night drew near, they arrived before an island at the point where the Honeywine flows into Whispering Sound.
Upon this island stood a towering, massive, and magnificent lighthouse-shaped fortress, built upon the entirety of Battle Isle.
At the very top of this stone tower-castle burned a blazing flame, said to burn without ceasing day and night.
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