"So, that means the movements of the Iron Islands are still unclear at the moment?"
"Is there any way to find out what they're up to?"
There were no issues with the troop movements in the Vale, and Kal shifted the topic back to the Iron Islands.
After all, as Jon had said, there had been activity on the Iron Islands these past few months, yet the North—which, by all expectations, should have faced some sort of incident—had not been threatened at all. No matter how one looked at it, that did not quite make sense.
So the question arose—where had these people gone?
Faced with Kal's request, Jon fell silent for a few seconds, then shook his head helplessly.
"The Iron Islands are remote. Right now, even if we try to gather intelligence, what we get is only ordinary information. If Lord Tyrion hadn't previously assigned people to keep watch and then compiled and coordinated the findings to notice that the movements of those fleets were off, we might not even have realized there was a problem here."
"The Ironborn truly don't know anything at present. It's as if they've hidden themselves away—but it's also strange that they haven't attacked the North."
"We still lack ocean-going warships. Merchant vessels can be mobilized, but they can't track them, so…"
"So in the end, we're still having some trouble when it comes to the fleet?" Kal tapped his finger against the armrest again.
Then he looked around at those present. After his gaze shifted several times, he fell silent.
Baelor Hightower did not quite understand why Kal and Jon were so preoccupied with the matter of the Iron Islands. Still, upon hearing them speak of fleets, he hesitated twice before finally gritting his teeth and speaking up. "Your Grace, if you only need ships to gather information, House Hightower should be able to offer some help."
At those words, several people in the room turned to look at him.
Yet in response to his volunteered offer, Kal did not immediately state his position. Instead, he raised a hand and stroked his chin.
Then he suddenly spoke. "No. For us, the present situation may actually be a good thing."
"Just now, Jon, you said that Tyrion indicated that if our fleet is to put to sea, it will still require at least two months. Is that correct?"
Kal continued speaking as he turned his gaze back to Jon.
Jon nodded instinctively. Tyrion had indeed said as much when corresponding with him by letter.
"That's good," Kal could not help but smile.
He then clapped his hands and rose to his feet. "We'll discuss what comes next later. For now, it's time for lunch. Afterward, Jon, gather the Hound and the others. I have important matters to assign to you all."
Seeing that the king seemed to have already formed some sort of plan, Jon could only comply and go make the preparations.
Before long, a crowd gathered in the great hall of Highgarden—the Hound, Sandor Clegane; the newly knighted sellsword Bronn; and others all assembled.
At a long table, Kal sat at the head. Before him were a roasted trout, a stuffed goose drizzled with mulberry sauce, and several pieces of honeyed bread.
Seated with him were Jon, Randyll Tarly, Lady Arwyn Oakheart, Sandor Clegane, Bronn, Baelor Hightower, and several others.
Arys Oakheart, Balon Swann, Garlan Tyrell, and the rest of the Kingsguard did not sit at the table, but stood waiting nearby.
After Jon's summons earlier, everyone knew that the king was likely about to give important orders.
After all, House Hightower's army had already arrived at Highgarden, and Storm's End had just seen such a major incident.
Those at the table ate with divided attention. Kal, however, ate with gusto, grease shining around his mouth. He raised a hand, tore off a goose leg, and seeing several people glance at him from time to time, took a bite. After chewing only a couple of times, he suddenly spoke.
"Bronn, are you interested in becoming a noble lord?"
"Or rather—have you decided where you want to build your family's castle?"
Kal's sudden question caught everyone off guard. It was not just Bronn, seated at the lower end of the long table—no one had expected the king to abruptly bring up something that involved Bronn at all.
Those who had already been eating absentmindedly froze for a moment, then turned to look at Bronn as well, who was still burying his head in his food.
Faced with the gazes of the others and of Kal, Bronn felt a sudden, unprovoked tension. He gulped, swallowing the food in his throat.
"O-of course, Your Grace. But as for building a castle, I think that's still some distance away from me. That said, I must say—I've long been ready."
Bronn was very good at seizing every opportunity. Kal's words made him immediately understand that there was something that needed to be done.
"Very good."
Kal nodded in satisfaction. He then gracefully set down the half-eaten goose leg, took a napkin, and wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth.
"Earlier, while I had some spare time, I read through the letters Tyrion sent. I then discovered that there are still some people in the Westerlands who seem to have something wrong with their heads. I believe I have already shown them sufficient mercy, so…"
"I will give you a force. You will then choose one among these families. Whichever castle and family you take, everything that family owns will belong to you."
The previously harmonious dining atmosphere instantly took on the scent of blood with Kal's casually spoken words.
Even Bronn—who had already been mentally prepared and knew that Kal was likely about to assign him something major—froze in place.
But Kal was not finished. He then continued, his eyes carrying a deeper meaning. "However, this is not without conditions."
Yet in the face of Kal's "however," Bronn felt no fear at all.
He stood up directly from his seat, walked straight to Kal at the head of the table, placed one hand over his chest, and knelt on one knee.
"Your Grace, my life belongs to you."
Bronn felt that the expression on his face had never been as solemn as it was at this moment.
"I am honored," Kal said lightly, wholly unconcerned with the pledge, and continued with a soft laugh. "And my requirement of you is this: Tyrion will provide you with a list. Deal with the problems on that list."
"And in the course of this, you are to build up a force of your own. You need not concern yourself with logistics—I will take care of that. And once you have finished all of this… bring that force to Riverrun."
The smile on Kal's face suddenly took on a dangerous edge. Bronn, looking up at him, felt his hair stand on end for no clear reason.
"I want you to take Riverrun. Whatever reason you use is none of my concern. So—do you understand what I mean?"
Shocking words, meant to stun.
The moment Kal spoke, it was not only Bronn—Jon, seated beside Kal, and Randyll Tarly as well, all fell silent.
Fortunately, Kal had leaned in to speak close to Bronn's ear, so only those few heard his words.
Bronn's Adam's apple bobbed uncontrollably. His mouth felt dry, and he instinctively stuck out his tongue to lick his lips.
Yet as he met Kal's deep, ocean-blue eyes, a fire slowly began to burn in his own gaze.
"Your Grace, then the castle you promised me earlier—does that include this place as well?"
"That depends on how much you can accomplish. All I require you to remember is this: everything you do from here on has nothing to do with me. Do you understand?"
Faced with Bronn's question, Kal gave him an answer that was neither fully affirmative nor fully negative.
But the smile on Bronn's face only grew more unrestrained, the light in his eyes turning sharp enough to seem almost scorching.
"I already said it—my life belongs to you, Your Grace, King Kal I of House Baratheon," Bronn said, bowing deeply.
Kal patted his shoulder in satisfaction.
"Go. I very much look forward to eating another fine roasted fish when that time comes."
As Bronn forced himself to suppress the involuntary trembling of his hands and returned unsteadily to his seat, Kal lifted his head and glanced once at the few people who had heard his words earlier.
Under that gaze, everyone—including Randyll Tarly—could not help but look away.
Only Jon seemed as though he wanted to say something, but Lady Arwyn Oakheart, seated right beside him, reached out and tugged at him.
"His Grace must have his own reasons for doing this. What you need to do is not question him, but think about how to cooperate with His Grace and see this matter through properly," Arwyn whispered softly into Jon's ear. Having worked alongside this young man in administering nearly half of the Reach over this period of time, she understood his temperament very clearly.
In the end, Jon merely opened his mouth, hesitated for a moment, and chose silence.
Seeing that none of those who had heard his words spoke up, Kal shrugged.
He had, of course, had his reasons for speaking those words in such a setting. For now, however, it seemed that none of them had any objections.
To be honest, Kal was rather curious how they would act, because he was certain that his words earlier had reached only the few people he intended to hear them.
Yet those people had, without exception, chosen to pretend they had heard nothing.
"The Hound."
Seeing that no one spoke, Kal lifted his head and looked toward the lower end of the table, at Sandor Clegane—who seemed to care about nothing at all, simply raising a wine jug and tilting his head back, glugging wine straight down his throat.
Hearing the king call him, the Hound clanged the jug down, wiped his mouth roughly, and looked over.
"I have a task for you. Once this banquet ends, you are to take a force back to the Westerlands and await Tyrion's arrangements."
The Hound deliberately paused, waiting, and when it was clear that the king truly had nothing more to say to him—
"That's it?" the Hound asked, puzzled.
Kal nodded silently. "Once you return to the Westerlands, Tyrion will naturally assign you work."
"All right. Simple enough," Sandor shrugged and accepted the order.
Kal merely smiled, then shifted his gaze to Randyll Tarly.
"Lord Randyll Tarly?" Kal asked first.
Having also heard what Kal had said earlier to Bronn, Randyll lowered his head slightly. "Your Grace."
"If you are willing to serve me, I have two tasks for you."
"I am willing to serve you," Randyll replied at once, rising from his seat and kneeling on one knee before Kal.
He and Bronn were not as discourteous as Sandor.
"Lord Randyll, you have two choices. One is to lead troops and accompany me to Storm's End. The other is also to lead troops—but your destination will be King's Landing."
Kal did not deliberately lower his voice, nor did he use any means to control its reach, so everyone at the table heard his words.
This unexpected order left everyone present somewhat taken aback. After all, the most pressing matter at hand was dealing with Storm's End.
Once Kal took that place, he would be an unassailable king—though in truth, he already was.
But so long as he dealt with his own House Baratheon—his uncle, who was still openly rebelling against him—then his status as a bastard, paired with that golden dragon, would no longer be open to any dispute.
Yet at such a moment, Kal not only split off part of his forces to return to his own lands in the Westerlands, he now even intended to divide his troops further and send them to King's Landing.
What was he trying to do?
Randyll also did not understand what Kal was planning, but he caught the implication hidden within those words.
The king wanted him to go to King's Landing.
"Your Grace wants me to go to King's Landing?" Randyll asked instinctively. Though it was not entirely unreasonable, he did not quite grasp Kal's intent.
Kal did not answer him at once. Instead, he suddenly threw out a temptation.
"If you are willing to go to King's Landing, then you will be my Master of Laws."
A seat among the king's small council.
The people around the long table fell silent once more, even their breathing deliberately subdued.
Kal had granted the position with little more than a movement of his lips, as if it were nothing.
Yet one had to remember that while Robert still lived, no one from the Reach, Dorne, or even the Westerlands had been able to claim a place at the very core of power.
Faced with such temptation, however, Randyll's brow only furrowed deeper.
There was no such thing as a free gift falling from the sky. The Lord of Horn Hill understood very well that since Kal was willing to give him this position—one that had originally belonged to Renly Baratheon—there must be a corresponding price behind it.
Just as with Bronn earlier: to obtain what he desired, he would have to stake his life.
"What does Your Grace need me to do?" Randyll asked bluntly.
"I need you, before I ascend the Iron Throne, to sweep away certain unsightly things. That way, when I truly sit upon the Iron Throne, I will feel at ease."
That was all Kal said.
Randyll could not help but fall silent, and the others at the long table followed suit.
After a long moment, Randyll lowered his head.
"You are the rightful king of the Iron Throne. Your command is the mission of House Tarly."
"I will give you a detailed plan later. You need not burden yourself too much," Kal said, nodding in satisfaction once more. Then he reached out and helped Randyll to his feet. "Rise, my Master of Laws."
Randyll stood up with worry written on his face and returned in silence to his seat.
At that moment, Baelor glanced left and right. After swallowing nervously, he looked toward Kal and asked in a low voice, "Your Grace… what about us?"
Kal looked at him as if he were a fool.
"We are, of course, marching on Storm's End."
"However, after Stannis has stirred things up like this, how matters will develop is hard to say. It may well become another Siege of Storm's End. Prepare for a protracted campaign."
"After all, Stannis went hungry once when he was trapped inside Storm's End last time. This time, he should at least have learned his lesson."
Kal spoke with a light tone, smiling as he did so.
Yet even as he said this, an unreadable glint surfaced deep in his eyes.
Hearing these arrangements, those present gradually sorted out the overall picture.
Setting Bronn's matter aside, the situation now was that the army gathered at Highgarden would be split into three forces.
One would return to the Westerlands. Another would be led by Randyll Tarly, newly appointed Master of Laws, to King's Landing.
And the king himself would continue to lead troops to Storm's End to suppress the rebellion.
"I will make the arrangements, Your Grace," Jon said, having grasped the king's intentions and taking up the thread.
But as soon as he spoke, Kal shook his head at him.
"No, Ser Jon Whitewolf. You will remain at Highgarden."
"Me? Stay here?"
"Yes, Lord Paramount of the Mander."
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