Some people were curious about what the king and the duke had discussed in private, while others did not care at all. As the queen had said, everyone was tired, cold, and hungry. Their minds had no space left for curiosity—especially when the matter concerned the king. Still, they put up a grand show, giving the royal family the dignity and face they were due.
Karl was naturally one of those who did not care.
After all, apart from the unknown God, the Three-Eyed Raven who could rewrite the script, and the two parties involved, Karl was probably the one who understood this matter the most clearly. So while everyone else was busy welcoming the king's procession and putting on a polite performance, Karl—who had already "clocked out" from his daytime responsibilities—kept a deliberate distance and stayed far away from the commotion.
After entrusting Fawkes to the stablemen of Winterfell, Karl turned around to look for his "bastards," as he jokingly referred to his mercenary companions.
Because of the excuse the queen had used to prevent the king from viewing the dead man, Lady Catelyn—the lady of Winterfell—immediately stepped forward with the stewards and servants to receive the more than three hundred people. She guided them all into the Great Hall of the castle and ordered the kitchens to bring out the food that had been prepared in advance.
The Great Hall, used for receiving guests and serving as the castle lord's family dining area, could easily accommodate more than five hundred people. Housing three hundred tired and hungry travelers was no challenge at all.
Soon the gathered crowd dispersed, settling around the eight long tables in the hall and finding seats wherever they could.
Karl did not know what the others were eating, but when he found the Blackrock mercenaries, a chubby kitchen helper handed him a steaming loaf of rye bread and a wooden bowl filled with turnips and peas stewed with large chunks of rabbit meat.
He devoured the food quickly, shoveling it into his stomach with practiced efficiency. When he finished, he licked his teeth with his tongue, rubbed his belly, and decided he would find another opportunity to eat again in the "game world" later.
Just then, Hall—who had clearly been watching him for some time—approached with a lewd, knowing grin.
"Hey~ Boss," Hall drawled. "I heard you actually know Lord Stark, the Duke of Winterfell?"
Karl placed his empty wooden bowl onto a nearby barrel without much thought. After giving Hall a sideways look, he wondered aloud where Koch had disappeared to. Usually Koch was the one who used these moments to "figure out what the boss is thinking," so he could boast to the others later.
Karl spat out a tiny bone fragment, leaned lazily against the pillar behind him, squinted his eyes with a smug expression, and replied, "You misheard. I don't know His Excellency the Duke that well…"
But before he could continue, he suddenly heard the faint rustling of fur near his feet.
Looking down, he saw a small white creature—barely knee-high—standing at his boots, sniffing him with curiosity.
Noticing it had been discovered, the little wolf lifted its head. Its striking snow-white fur gleamed under the torchlight.
Then Karl saw its eyes.
Red. Deep red.
"A dog?" Hall said aloud as he walked closer, his voice full of confusion. "Boss, this dog is white! Looks a bit like that white fox you shot—'cept its snout isn't as pointy."
He leaned closer, still talking nonsense. "Maybe it smelled the fox fur, boss. Do you think it'll bite you?"
As if understanding Hall's words, the little wolf wrinkled its nose and bared its sharp fangs. It took two small steps back and lowered its head in a defensive stance, glaring at Hall with its blood-red eyes.
But no sound came from its throat.
Hall stiffened, a cold shiver running down his neck.
Before the situation escalated, a hand—red from the cold—landed gently on the wolf's head, stroking its fur in a calming motion.
"Ghost is an ice wolf," a voice said behind the creature. "Not a dog."
"It's not a fox either."
Jon Snow appeared suddenly, as if out of thin air. His gray eyes studied Karl with curiosity—and perhaps a bit of caution.
He had also heard Hall's careless words. His gaze drifted to the helmet Karl had set aside. A conspicuous patch of white fur was visible inside. Then Jon's eyes shifted to the white cloak draped over Karl's shoulders.
The cloak was soft, the snow-white fur facing inward. It was not extravagant, but it radiated a strangely warm, comforting feeling.
"Is the cloak behind you also made of white fox fur?" fourteen-year-old Jon asked unconsciously, his voice full of curiosity as he looked at Karl. In his mind, the reason Ghost had approached Karl was because the fur smelled familiar.
The last time Jon had seen such dazzling clothing was on a knight named Ser Waymar Royce.
Jon remembered him clearly: a powerful black warhorse, black leather boots, black wool trousers, even black mole-skin gloves. He wore a black woollen sweater beneath his hard leather armor, all of it covered by a shimmering black chainmail hauberk. But the most eye-catching part of his attire had been the thick, soft cloak of black mink fur.
He wore black because he was heading to the Wall, joining the Night's Watch. As the third son of a noble house, his chances of inheritance were slim, so he had chosen the Wall himself.
Jon had admired him, and he also knew his sister Sansa had been fascinated by the knight during his brief stay in Winterfell.
But Jon knew well the vows of the Night's Watch—never marry, never hold land, never father children. So when he saw Karl's attire—clearly more expensive than Ser Waymar's, except for the color—he wondered whether Karl's cloak was made of the same rare kind of fur.
Karl heard Jon's question and first cast a glance at Ghost. Then he looked at the lean boy with the long face, brown hair, and gray eyes.
A mischievous idea crossed his mind.
"Before asking a stranger a question," Karl said lazily, "shouldn't you give your own name first, little brat?"
"Unless you're the owner of this place…"
As he spoke, Karl pushed himself upright from the pillar, placing both hands on his knees and staring at the young boy before him. His gaze was calm but slightly intimidating.
"But I'd bet you're not," Karl continued, a teasing smile appearing. "Because I just spoke to the true lord of this place not long ago. I saw him bow to the king and kiss the queen's hand."
"And all I saw behind them… was you."
Jon Snow instantly flushed red.
Ghost pressed himself closer to Jon's leg as the boy straightened his posture. Jon stood quickly, his hands awkwardly trying to find a place to rest. His cheeks burned as though he had been caught doing something embarrassing.
Still, he forced himself to remain composed. He puffed out his chest slightly—an instinctive attempt not to appear small before the towering warrior.
"I… I am Jon Snow," he said seriously. "I'm sorry Ghost came to you. But please believe me—he means no harm."
For some reason he couldn't explain—even to himself—Jon found he wanted to speak properly to Karl, to not appear rude or childish.
Karl could see it clearly. The boy was trying to appear brave, even noble.
Jon had the aura of someone who wanted to be taken seriously.
Jon lifted his chin a little higher. "Ser," he added, addressing Karl as if he were a knight.
He assumed Karl must be a member of the Kingsguard. After all, Jon had seen him earlier, standing behind the king.
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