Kal Stone adjusted the sheepskin gloves he had just slipped on, feeling the awkward tightness at his fingertips gradually ease.
Then he clapped his hands together, brushing off clumps of dirt that had somehow gotten stuck to the gloves and hardened without him noticing. Only then did he turn his head and glance back at the king's procession from a distance.
It was a dazzling river forged from gold, silver, and steel.
Bathed in the coastal sunlight of King's Landing, it gleamed brilliantly—radiant, resplendent.
But for now, this glittering river of over 300 people remained like a half-melted piece of amber—quivering, sluggish, uncertain of when it might finally begin to flow.
Kal's deep blue eyes flicked slightly as he watched the procession, a subtle glint of thought flashing through them.
Yet that flicker of contemplation vanished in an instant, and he didn't linger long on the sight.
Instead, he turned around, a faint, lazy smile curling his lips as he leaned back casually against a wooden cask said to be filled with sweet red wine from the Riverlands. Clearly, he had no intention of joining the crowd up ahead.
As for the wine barrel beneath him—whether it belonged to that deformed Lannister dwarf or the rotund king whose waistline nearly matched his height—Kal didn't particularly care.
Even though, technically, he was part of this very procession.
Unfortunately, his position—compared to the lords and nobles around him—was nothing more than that of a captain among the free knights hired by the king.
After all, this dazzling river was composed of royalty and power: the king, the queen, the prince and princess, along with proud bannermen, knights, and sworn swords.
In their eyes, he was merely a commoner. Insignificant.
And with such humble status came the kind of tasks that nobles and proper knights had no desire to do—the dirty, backbreaking jobs.
Fortunately, all Kal and his men were really expected to handle was reconnaissance and scouting ahead—providing early warnings, charting the road. Basically, the kind of work done by scouts and vanguards.
Though, truth be told, on the King's Road, most of that wasn't really necessary—at least not while they were still in the Crownlands.
It was once they crossed the Riverlands and entered the North that the real work would begin for Kal and his company.
Thinking about what lay ahead, Kal couldn't help but glance once more at the prideful, extravagant, and pompous procession—its very atmosphere radiated wealth and arrogance.
Kal's deep blue eyes shifted once more, lingering this time on the banners of the procession.
A dozen golden standards fluttered proudly in the wind, each one embroidered with the crowned stag—the sigil of House Baratheon.
Kal himself had two of these banners, handed to him earlier by a Kingsguard clad in a snow-white cloak, accompanied by two attendants. But he hadn't yet unfurled them.
They were to be used during the journey ahead—either when scouting ahead to clear the road or when passing through the territories of lords, to signal their royal association.
"Boss!"
Just as Kal was quietly observing the procession, lost in thought, a man in a worn brown-and-black leather half-plate armor approached him.
The man looked to be in his thirties, of average build—not too lean, not too stocky—with gray-blue eyes that gleamed with a hint of wit and mischief.
As he came closer, he gave Kal a quick glance before his attention was naturally drawn to the grand spectacle behind them. With a touch of doubt in his voice, he asked, "Are we about ready to head out?"
"We're waiting for the king's command. Has Fawkes been brought over?" Kal replied, turning to look at the man beside him—who didn't even reach his shoulder.
Kal wasn't just marked by his deep blue eyes and charcoal-black hair—he stood an imposing 2.03 meters tall. Even sitting on a wine barrel, he was nearly as tall as Kossi was standing.
He wasn't just tall either—his frame was broad, muscular, and powerful. His shoulders were wide, his arms thick as tree trunks. And yet, what made it almost unfair was that he was strikingly handsome. That towering body didn't make him seem clumsy—it was all perfectly proportioned.
Kossi, catching the question about the horse, shrugged casually and glanced toward the nearby edge of the gathering.
"Little Ewing's getting things ready for the road. Giving him a quick grooming too... Should be leading him over any moment now."
At his response, Kal followed his gaze through the crowd, though he said nothing more. He simply nodded in silence.
The ' Fawkes' he referred to was his warhorse—just as tall and muscular, with a dark red coat.
When properly groomed and standing under the sunlight, even its skin seemed to reflect a faint metallic sheen.
Kal had brought the horse back himself from across the Narrow Sea. It was, without question, his most beloved companion.
As for why he named the horse Fawkes, it wasn't because it was a mare—quite the opposite, in fact. It had been a stallion.
Well… formerly.
Before Kal had taken him in, the poor creature had been gelded, leaving him a castrated warhorse.
But that didn't matter. Kal liked him—immensely. He even considered the name a way of showing his affection. And it absolutely wasn't because taking the horse out of the Free Cities had cost him 30 gold coins.
For that price, one could've bought three equally fine horses in Westeros. A full suit of decent armor would've only cost around 15 gold dragons.
As for why Fawkes had been gelded, Kal had asked.
The merchant who sold him explained it was partly to make him suitable for battle—less temperamental, more manageable.
And partly because the horse wasn't being sold as a breeding stallion.
Poor Fawkes.
Perhaps sensing Kal might try to haggle, the merchant had quickly added in a hushed tone that gelding reduced hormonal influence, made the horse more docile, easier to tame—a benefit, really.
At the time, Kal had been just a wandering sellsword, scraping by from city to city across the Free Cities.
He'd expressed some regret—then promptly knocked five gold coins off the price.
In the years since, Kal had occasionally wondered if Fawkes's calm nature also had something to do with being taken far from his original homeland. The horse may have once roamed the grasslands of the Dothraki Sea—though Kal had no way of knowing whether Fawkes had ever even seen those legendary plains.
Fawkes: "…"
Kossi hadn't been wrong—before long, Little Ewing came leading Fawkes toward them.
The boy looked up at Kal, hesitated, then pressed his lips together as if to gather his courage before speaking.
"Captain Kal, can't I come with you?" he asked, voice earnest. "I can do a lot—I really can!"
Little Ewing, as Kossi had called him, was just twelve years old. Short for his age, and perhaps a bit malnourished.
He had a head of curly brown hair and the first wisps of soft greenish fuzz sprouting awkwardly around his lips. As he stood there before Kal, looking up with a mix of pleading and determination, there was a hint of stubbornness in his expression—he clearly didn't want to lose this job.
Even with Kal seated, the boy still wasn't taller than him. Hearing the boy's pleading tone, Kal firmly shook his head.
Then, with a rare touch of gentleness, he reached out and tousled the same unremarkable curls that mirrored his own.
"The North is cold—colder than you can imagine."
"Maybe you should wait until you've survived your first winter before deciding something like that."
Kal didn't reject Ewing's plea outright. Instead, he used a softer, more measured tone—offering comfort to this boy who had to fend for himself while also caring for a sick mother and younger sister at home.
Kossi, standing nearby, grinned with his signature gap-toothed smile, as if mocking those who hadn't yet experienced a true winter—just lambs born in summer, soft and untested.
At that moment, Kal rose to his feet, the clinking of his armor ringing out as he moved.
Then, with a single motion, he reached into some unseen pocket and slipped a small pouch into Ewing's hand.
"Take care of your mother and sister—they still need you."
"But once we're gone, you can go to Tobho Mott and start your training. I've already paid your apprentice fee."
As he spoke, Kal reached out again and gave Ewing's curls a light ruffle, smiling faintly as he took the reins of Fawkes from the boy's hands.