The king rode atop a warhorse with a coat as black as night, save for three of its legs, which were stark white.
It was a powerful beast—had to be, to carry the considerable weight upon its back.
King Robert, bored out of his mind, naturally noticed the silver-armored knight waiting by the roadside on horseback.
The sight of that familiar black hair made him smile, even though moments before he had been on the verge of bellowing at someone just to get the damned column moving faster.
Not that anyone could see the smile—his thick, bristling beard and the double chin hidden beneath it concealed almost every trace of expression.
"Your Grace, we're just 2.5 kilometers from the inn where you'll be lodging tonight!"
"Everything's been arranged for your comfort," Kal called out, riding up alongside Robert Baratheon.
He didn't dismount—given the moving formation, he simply eased into position about half a horse's length behind the king to make his report.
Yet even so, a figure remained between him and the king—a Kingsguard, silent atop his horse, his face hidden behind a tall white helm, eyes unreadable beneath its shadowed visor.
As Kal finished relaying the remaining distance to their destination, he noticed those obscured eyes watching him.
His own gaze met theirs—then dropped, almost by instinct, to the knight's leg hanging over the horse's side: short, slightly bent outward in a strange angle.
From those legs and that short, stocky build, even without seeing the face hidden beneath the helmet, Kal knew exactly who it was.
Ser Boros Blount of House Blount—a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to serve King Robert Baratheon.
He, along with his brothers-in-arms Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Meryn Trant, had been assigned to accompany and guard King Robert on his journey to Winterfell.
Kal wasn't bothered by the hostile look aimed his way. He acted as if he hadn't noticed at all, his face betraying no reaction.
After all, in his eyes, this man—whom he'd seen more than once along Silk Street—was likely no different from Jaime Lannister or Meryn Trant. More loyal, perhaps, to the occupant of the wheelhouse behind them than to the king he rode beside.
So a glare like that didn't come as any surprise.
Sometimes, Kossi wasn't just speaking nonsense after all.
"Seven hells! I can't even remember the last time I rode a horse with a warhammer in hand!"
"Bet the wind on my face back then was a lot cooler than now—my back's soaked like I pissed myself!"
"Damn it! I'd rather be soaking those bed sheets torn to shreds after a good rut!"
At Kal's comment, King Robert blinked, then groaned and rubbed his lower back. He cast a scowl past Kal toward the head of the column and grumbled through clenched teeth.
It was only the first day of travel—and by far the easiest stretch since leaving King's Landing—but for a king who hadn't 'enjoyed' this kind of life in years, the seemingly endless road had already worn out its welcome.
Especially after suffering such discomfort.
Kal didn't react to the king's curses. He simply ignored them, even withdrawing his gaze from the Kingsguard at Robert's side and bowing his head slightly.
Seeing that the mercenary knight he'd personally ordered hired had no intention of replying, Robert let out a sharp, irritated click of the tongue and turned his head instinctively toward the massive wheelhouse trailing behind him.
Then, suddenly, he barked again: "Boring men, boring road, and that gods-damned screeching and creaking!"
"If it weren't for—hells, I should've had someone bring up my wine already!"
No one responded to the king's tirade. But those within earshot knew well enough exactly who his curses were aimed at.
At that moment, everyone seemed to have become like Ser Ilyn Payne, the tongueless executioner of the Mad King—silent, as if silence were their only duty.
And for the Kingsguard, unless the king required them to speak, silence was their duty.
Robert's patience had long since frayed—worn thin by their dull company and the relentless pace of the road.
"Gods-damned sons of whores!"
"Tell them to pick up the pace! I don't want to be squinting at my plate by candlelight at dinner—wondering if I'm about to eat venison or someone's chopped-off bloody finger!"
At the king's order, the column quickened its march.
And right then, a small detachment split from the main host, galloping off toward the place Kal had reported earlier.
They were the ones meant to handle preparations before the king's arrival.
…
Kal didn't linger long at Robert's side—nor did he wish to listen to his endless complaints.
He never knew what to say to the man he was supposed to call father. Truth was, Kal didn't know this man at all: a foul-mouthed brute who reeked of wine even when the wind blew clean, and sprayed spittle with every rant.
To Kal, the king was no different from any other man who tossed a silver stag his way to hire his sword.
Well—except this one paid in gold dragons, and quite generously.
Under other circumstances, that might've delighted Kal. He might even have taken Kossi and the others down to Silk Street and declared, loud and proud, that tonight's revels were on Young Master Stone.
But clearly, this wasn't the time for such thoughts.
So, after doing his job, Kal pulled away—leaving the king to stew in his own curses—and rode off, following the squad ahead at a steady distance as they made their way back toward the inn.
On the way, though, Kal found his mind drifting to dinner.
Perhaps a great tankard of barley beer, and bread and meat piled so high it would take three wooden platters to hold it all.
As for the kind of meat? He didn't much care.
Maybe rabbit. Maybe mutton. Maybe the innkeeper had been lucky and picked up some wild boar or roe deer from a local hunter.
Meat like that only needed to be brined first, then thrown over the fire—and when the moment was right, a big chunk, bones and all, could be tossed into a pot along with onions, carrots, and water.
If he wanted to be a little indulgent, he could toss in more salt, and maybe mix in some mint or rosemary as well.
Then all it would take was a proper simmer—at least half an hour—until the carrots softened to the point of melting, and the big chunk of meat with the bone fell apart at a gentle squeeze. That's when it would be just right.
Two pieces of bread would do. Or maybe a freshly roasted potato—anything along those lines.
Pour the rich, savory stew over the bread or the potato, pair it with a raw carrot and a tall mug of barley beer—and that would be a proper reward for a hard day's labor.
And if he still wasn't full, Kal could always sneak off later that night—pretending he needed to take a piss—and head into the game world for a second helping of something else.
When it came to food, Kal's standards were simple: as long as it was tasty and filled his belly, he didn't much care about anything else.
Even something as humble as a scrawny rat—so long as it wasn't all bone—might do in a pinch.
After a full day on the road, his stomach was already growling loud enough to make anything sound edible.
As for whether he might get to eat something prepared by the king's own cooks, Kal wasn't counting on it.
Carrying that pleasant fantasy in his mind, Fawkes picked up his pace, and before long they had returned to the inn.
But just as they arrived, a voice called out to him.
"Boss!"
It was Kossi, grinning wide, exposing the crooked tooth he'd lost in the back, the one everyone jokingly called his 'dog fang', as he trotted over from beneath a large tree.
Kal dismounted, listening to Fawkes snort heavily. He gave the horse a few calming pats on the neck, then turned to face Kossi.
"Nothing happened, I hope?" Kal asked, his gaze drifting toward the group that had arrived at the inn earlier under the king's command.
They seemed busy enough. A man who looked like a steward stood in the courtyard barking orders at the top of his lungs.
While Kal and Kossi were talking, one of the workers lagged behind and earned a sharp kick in the rear for it.
Kossi understood what Kal was really asking. He let out a chuckle, then raised one rough hand and pointed in a direction.
Kal followed his gesture. Just off the Kingsroad was a small grove, and it looked like their unit had already chosen it as their resting spot.
"We've picked a place to rest later, Boss. Hand Fawkes over to me—I'll take him for some water."
After pointing out their chosen spot, Kossi finally revealed why he'd been waiting there specifically.
"A good little spot—sheltered from the wind, with a clear view of the surroundings. Not bad at all," Kal said with a smile as he looked over the location. Then he handed over the reins. "Give Fawkes a bit more oats, and toss in some beans while you're at it. We're not short on supplies."
"Of course! If he lost even a single kilogram of muscle, all the meat and bone on my body together wouldn't be worth his price!"
Kossi declared it with the utmost seriousness, eyeing Fawkes like he was a walking pile of gold dragons.
Hearing that nonsense, Kal couldn't help but raise a hand and smack him on the back. Caught off guard, Kossi stumbled forward with a grunt.
Fawkes, seeing Kossi's ridiculous reaction, gave a full-body shake, curled his lips back, and let out a loud, high-pitched snort that sounded suspiciously like a mocking laugh. It reminded Kal of a donkey he once owned—even the bray had that same sharp tone.
"Quit with the crap talk. Get moving," Kal said.
With that, he sent the clown on his way—now leading Fawkes with a grimace in place of his earlier grin, wincing from the sting of that slap on his back.
And as the smile faded from Kossi's face, it transferred neatly to Kal's.
Shaking his head as he watched man and horse walk off into the distance, Kal adjusted the hilt of his sword at his waist—then turned and stepped back into the inn.