"Stark, up!" Robert bellowed, his voice booming. "Come on, wake up—we've got matters of the realm to discuss!"
Seeing that Robert wasn't jesting, Eddard frowned slightly and gave a short nod.
"As you command, Your Grace," he said, stepping aside. "Please, come inside the tent."
Jon, who had just roused him, lifted the flap at the words—
But Robert waved him off. His breath steamed in the cold air, spilling out in thick white clouds.
He glanced at the endless column of men and the many banners of the great houses, then said bluntly, "Too many idle ears in camp. I'd wager half the walls here have them."
"And besides, I feel like getting out—taking in a bit of your northern sights. I've had my fill of those snow-covered lands of yours."
At that, Eddard noticed a familiar figure standing just behind the King.
Who else could it be but Kal Stone?
And behind him, a dozen cloaked men—no doubt the members of that oddly named company, the Blackstone mercenaries.
Ever since the last incident, Robert—still seething—had dismissed the men he had originally brought and, for this march south, had instead appointed Kal as his personal guard.
Eddard Stark simply chose to act as though he couldn't read the King's thoughts or the childish petulance that lingered from their last quarrel.
He sighed helplessly. Aside from rubbing the sleep from his eyes, dressing, and saddling his horse, there was nothing else to be done.
Robert might trust his vassal Ned well enough, but clearly not so when it came to the rest of the realm.
And given the way this was being done, whatever the King wished to say was bound to be of some importance.
All the way, Robert urged his black warhorse into a hard gallop. Forced to follow, Ned called out a question about what business was so urgent—
But the north wind tore his words away, and the King didn't hear.
Seeing this, Lord Stark fell silent and simply rode on in silence.
They soon left the Kingsroad behind, riding into a broad plain thick with black mist.
A short way back, Kal slowed his pace and turned to call out to Jon Snow, Kossi, Hall, and the others riding beside him.
"Ease up! The King and the Hand have matters to discuss—we shouldn't get too close!"
At his order, Jon and the rest reined in, keeping a measured distance—neither too near nor too far—behind the two men ahead.
They followed like this until Kal saw King Robert and Lord Stark crest a low ridge, where the pair finally slowed their horses.
"Spread out! Make sure there's no one—man or beast—within 500 m of the King and the Hand. Not even a rabbit!"
"And Jon—you're with me!"
For all their unreliability in day-to-day matters, Kal's men had been riding with him for half a year, and he trusted them when it counted.
At his command, the dozen-odd cavalrymen fanned out in a wide arc.
Kal watched each man take his position. Once satisfied, he glanced back in the direction they had come.
They were now several kilometres from camp.
Up on the ridge, Lord Stark had dismounted to join the King.
"Kal has a good deal of experience," Eddard remarked, eyeing the neatly arranged guard positions below. "Looks like this wasn't just a whim of yours."
Hearing the Hand praise his bastard son, Robert pulled back his hood, breath streaming in thick white clouds. Grinning as though the compliment were for himself, he said, "That boy struck out for the Free Cities on his own at thirteen—and not only survived without ending up a slave, but came back better than ever."
"Don't underestimate him."
With that, the king gave his Hand a smug look, as if to say to his old friend: You chose wrong.
When Eddard remained silent, looking sullen, Robert only laughed all the more heartily.
But as he chuckled, something seemed to occur to him. He glanced down the ridge toward the short, slightly slow-witted fellow trailing close to Kal.
"Come to think of it, you've never told me who that boy's mother is, have you?"
"Becca? No, she's mine. Gods bless her, that glossy black hair and those sweet, big eyes—hard not to fall for her."
"As for your… Alina?"
"No, wait, I think you mentioned once… Meliel?"
"Her name is Vera. And forgive me, I don't wish to speak of her."
For some reason, Lord Stark's expression darkened as he politely cut off the king's question.
Seeing Eddard's stony face, Robert didn't take offense; he just chuckled again, wearing the look of a man who knew he'd won. From his belt, he fished out a folded letter and handed it to Eddard.
"Never mind. I didn't bring you here to talk about bastards."
"Last night, Varys had a message sent from King's Landing. Here."
At the mention of that name, Eddard's mind immediately conjured the image of a plump, bald man reeking of powder and perfume.
The thought made him frown without realizing it.
Still, when Robert spoke, a flicker of concern crossed his face. He reached out, took the letter from the king, and unfolded it to read.
Fortunately, it wasn't about anything that might worsen the current war.
But when he finished, the lines on his brow did not smooth away.
"What's the source of this information?" the Hand asked the king.
...
The rising sun combed its golden fingers through the pale morning mist, revealing a vast plain before Kal's eyes.
Aside from a scattering of long, gentle hills, there was nothing but stretches of bare brown earth.
Kal stood quietly, taking in the view.
...
Up on the ridge, Eddard Stark looked at King Robert with grave eyes.
"Do you remember Ser Jorah Mormont?" the king asked casually.
"I could never forget that man," Eddard answered without hesitation.
"Ser Jorah is in Pentos," Robert said. "He's desperate for a royal pardon so he can sail home."
"Varys has made good use of that leverage."
Noticing the change in Eddard's expression, Robert offered the explanation.
"A slaver turned spy?" Eddard's voice dripped with disgust at the king's words.
He shoved the letter back into Robert's hand and cursed without hesitation. "I'd sooner see him as a corpse."
"Varys thinks a spy is far more useful than a corpse," Robert replied, his own tone carrying a hint of irritation at Eddard's displeasure.
But he hadn't summoned him here to quarrel, so after that one muttered retort, he moved on to the matter that truly concerned him.
"All right, let's set Jorah aside. What's your opinion on this?"
"Daenerys marrying a Dothraki khal? So what?" Eddard asked, still irritable, then added with a trace of scorn, "What, should we send a wedding gift?"
At that, the king's brow furrowed.
"I'd say a knife would be better. A sharp one—placed in the hands of someone with the guts to use it."
...
Down the ridge, the wind carried snatches of their quarrel, the words torn apart before they could be made out clearly.
"Ser Kal, why does the king argue with Lord Eddard so often?"
"What exactly are they talking about?"
Trailing beside Kal, Jon let out a yawn, his eyes full of confusion.
It was his first time traveling so far from home, and under such circumstances, the boy not yet fifteen found himself brimming with curiosity about this true world he had never seen before.
Yet just as he forced himself to shake off his drowsiness and take in the kind of view Winterfell could never offer, voices of dispute drifted down from the ridge behind him.
Hearing Jon's question, Kal—who was crouched on the ground, twirling a withered blade of grass and wondering whether this was a good chance to slip away for a quick piss—suddenly showed a spark of interest.
He stood, used the withered stalk in his hand to trace a circle in the air around Jon's outline, then asked, "Jon, if you were given the chance to become a Kingsguard, would you take it?"
Jon, curious whether Kal knew what the king and his father were discussing, froze at the question.
He couldn't imagine how the two things were connected.
So he focused on answering what Kal had actually asked.
"Of course. Knights may be few in the North, but I know that becoming a Kingsguard is one of the highest honors in all Seven Kingdoms—"
"More so than the Night's Watch!"
After a brief moment of thought, Jon looked up at Kal and spoke as if it were obvious.
He didn't even notice that, when he said the words Kingsguard, there was a faintly odd note in his voice—one he himself was unaware of.
But as a boy not yet a man, raised on the stories told since childhood, Jon Snow had his own simple, clear judgment.
And having seen the real Kingsguard with his own eyes, he still felt they shone with far greater glory than the Night's Watch.
Of course, that was no slight against his uncle Benjen.
At the very least, in numbers and in skill, the Kingsguard were the more elite force.
Kal chuckled at his answer, then raised the withered stalk again and mimed a stitching motion across Jon's mouth.
"So, if you truly want to be a Kingsguard, the first thing you need to do is put away your curiosity—and then keep your mouth shut."
"And until the king asks for your counsel, what you should do is keep silent."
Hearing Ser Kal's words, Jon—no fool—understood exactly what he meant. His cheeks flushed red, and he lowered his head.
From then on, he did as Kal had taught: reined in his curiosity, shut his mouth, and kept silent.
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