Game of Thrones: Bastard? I’m the Damn Heir!

Under the flickering light of the campfire, Kal stared straight at Cersei, a meaningful glint in his eyes.

Then he nodded.

"Of course."

"I'm not lying—and I'm dead serious!!!"

Kal spoke with unwavering composure, the flames reflecting in his eyes.

And perhaps sensing disbelief in the crowd, he added: "Because I believe in justice. The Father watches over me!"

With that, he lifted his chin slightly, his face glowing with confidence—as though he were stating a simple, irrefutable truth.

The bystanders, however, didn't know how to respond.

Bringing up the Seven to justify his confidence? It caught them all off guard.

They wanted to call him naive… but saying so might be seen as blasphemous.

And yet, staying silent was its own kind of struggle—everyone there had a scale in their hearts.

So, they exchanged glances in silence, no one willing to speak.

But the way they looked at Kal had changed—from admiration… to a quiet, sorrowful realization:

The boy's been led astray by the Faith.

They had once hoped Kal would win.

But now?

Perhaps this, too, was the will of the gods…

A madman. A delusional fool. Blinded by pride.

People looked at Kal, and once again, doubts crept into their hearts—

Maybe the queen was right?

Kal didn't know what they were thinking. But even if he did, at most he'd probably just smile.

Perhaps worried that Cersei might change her mind and stop the duel—or that Robert would step in again to halt it—Kal suddenly grew impatient and barked, "So? Can you hurry up already?!"

As he spoke, Kal spun his longsword in a flourish, then took two steps back—

—signaling he was ready.

Even now, Kal remained arrogantly dismissive, even invoking the Seven themselves. Cersei, worried he might suddenly back out, looked even more delighted.

Without wasting a second, she turned to the two Kingsguard knights still kneeling before her, their eyes pleading for the honor to be bestowed upon them.

Seeing the two of them, Cersei felt an ever-deepening satisfaction swell in her chest.

Does Robert Baratheon even realize how many of his seven Kingsguard still truly serve him?

She thought of this with perverse amusement.

Then, raising her hand, she plucked a decorative flower pin from her robe and slid a ring off her finger.

With graceful poise, Cersei bent forward and handed the two personal tokens directly into the hands of Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount.

"Ser Meryn Trant. Ser Boros Blount…"

"I, Cersei Lannister, await the glory and justice you shall deliver on my behalf."

Her face bloomed with a sweet smile, her eyes full of confidence as she looked at them.

She didn't want anything unexpected to happen, so she sealed the matter as quickly as possible.

The items she gave—her pin and ring—served as both proof of her choosing them as her champions, and as a symbol to spur them forward in battle.

After all, in Westeros, there is a longstanding tradition: before a battle or a duel, knights often request a personal token from the woman they admire, to wear as a charm.

Of course, that woman might be a noble lady, or even an elder—but usually, such gestures are reserved for one's beloved or a woman of high regard.

And now, as Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount stared dumbfounded at the tokens the Queen had just placed in their hands—

—any hesitation over the shame of two-on-one combat vanished instantly.

With the honor and personal tokens of the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms granted to them, the two knights were practically snorting like bulls in heat. Gone was any concern over fairness or dignity.

Having received what they longed for, both men trembled with excitement, their heavy breathing loud and uncontrolled.

No longer hesitant, the two Kingsguard carefully pocketed the queen's gifts, bowed once more to Cersei, and then donned their helms.

With no further delay, they turned to face their opponent: Kal Stone.

After exchanging one final look with each other, both knights drew their longswords with a swift shring.

Their expressions hardened.

And together, side by side, they slowly began closing in on Kal.

Seeing that the two of them, after all their hesitation, still chose to attack together, the contempt in Kal's eyes grew even stronger.

At the same time, a faint killing intent began to radiate from him.

As the two men advanced, Kal once again glanced at the white cloaks they wore.

Then, shifting his gaze past them, he looked toward Cersei.

Seeing the confident, victorious smile on her face, Kal responded with a similar smile as their eyes met.

The onlookers watched in silence as the two Kingsguard truly prepared to strike against a newly knighted boy barely in his teens.

Though many felt a sense of disgust deep down, no one stepped forward or spoke up.

Trial by combat was a sacred affair—a duel held under the watchful eyes of the Seven.

As long as both parties had no objections, then by all standards, the fight remained "fair" in the eyes of the gods.

And so, no matter what surprises unfolded during the match, people would only acknowledge the final result.

For that too would be taken as the will of the divine.

With everything now set in stone, the crowd gradually fell silent. Though their hearts pounded, they forced themselves not to make a sound.

"…A pleasure to meet you both," Kal said.

"Though I actually don't know who you are, I believe you should feel honored."

"After all, these will be the last words you ever hear from me."

Kal spoke casually, raising his longsword as he looked lazily at the two men approaching from either side.

But before Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount—already on alert—could respond to his words, both of them suddenly felt their vision blur.

Kal, who had just been standing before them, was no longer holding his sword in hand.

At some unknown moment, he had quietly embedded it into a nearby brazier.

And in the next second—

That brazier, filled to the brim with glowing red-hot coals, was hurled straight at them by Kal Stone.

Under the black canopy of night and in the torch-lit arena, fire erupted into the air like a sudden downpour—

A rain of fire that came crashing down upon the two Kingsguard.

"What the—"

"Urgh…!"

Caught completely off guard by the unexpected move, Meryn Trant and Boros Blount tensed up in an instant.

The blazing fire scattered through the air, blown apart by the wind into countless flying embers. The scorching light filled their entire field of vision.

Acting on instinct, the two knights frantically ducked and dodged, swinging their swords in wild arcs in a desperate attempt to ward off the incoming blaze.

Fortunately, the firestorm came fast and ended just as quickly.

Dressed head to toe in full armor and cloaked in white, the two suffered no real damage beyond the initial panic.

But just as they regained their footing—

With the afterimage of the fire still burned into their retinas—

They realized their target had vanished.

On reflex, both knights spun around, eyes sweeping the area in all directions, desperate to relocate their missing opponent.

"You damned bastard—you've pissed me off!"

Boros Blount roared in fury, hurling curses as he stomped around.

But just as he shouted and began turning, his head twisting frantically to locate Kal—

A low, guttural scream suddenly rang out behind him.

It came from Ser Meryn Trant, who—somehow—was now standing directly behind him.

The moment Boros heard that cry, a chill shot down his spine, and every hair on his body stood on end.

A creeping, inexplicable sense of danger instantly enveloped him.

"You looking for me?"

Kal Stone's calm voice rose from behind the flanking pair.

Without hesitation, Boros Blount didn't even spare a glance for his sworn brother, Ser Meryn Trant.

His first instinct was to flee.

With two quick strides, he bolted forward and was gone from where he'd stood less than a second earlier.

Only after leaping to safety did he risk turning around—and what he saw left him speechless.

Kal—the boy who had "vanished" before their eyes—was now standing perfectly still in the very spot between the two Kingsguard.

No flair. No theatrics.

Just calmly standing there, his plain, undecorated longsword held upright in his hand.

But the tip of that blade…

Had disappeared cleanly into the narrow gap between Meryn Trant's helmet and gorget.

Precise. And elegant.

Still dazed by the earlier "rain" and the sudden loss of his target, Meryn Trant now let out a muffled gurgle of incomprehensible sounds.

It was as though he couldn't believe it—

That he'd been struck down by a single move.

That he hadn't even had the chance to react before the blade pierced his throat.

His neck twisted, his face turning sideways in disbelief—

Trying to see, with his final breath, just how Kal Stone had managed to kill him.

But it seemed that after the longsword pierced his throat, it had gotten lodged in the bone, making it impossible for him to turn his neck.

In fact, trying to move only tore the wound wider.

And now, he no longer had the strength to move his neck at all.

Meryn Trant could feel the cold steel embedded in his throat—

That alien, chilling presence pressing inside his windpipe, something he had never felt before.

Blood surged uncontrollably from his mouth.

At the same time, he felt the strength draining from his body… and his vision began to blur.

The fire, which moments ago burned so brightly, offering warmth and light against the night, now dimmed before his eyes—returning to darkness.

The blood gushed more violently from the wound, spilling out from his lips, running down his chin, and dripping onto his armor.

Meryn Trant could no longer hold his treasured sword.

[Clang!]

It slipped from his grip and hit the ground.

He had no time to speak, no last words.

His knees gave out beneath him, and he dropped to the ground with a heavy thud.

Reflexively, his hands reached up, trying to cover the gash on his neck.

But it was useless.

He collapsed face-first into the mud.

The ornate white-scaled armor embroidered with fine golden thread, along with the thick wool cloak he wore, were quickly dyed crimson by the blood pouring from his throat.

Under the cold, silent night sky, the once-living body twitched a few times—

And then moved no more.

His eyes remained wide open, filled with blank resentment… and the faintest trace of regret.

Kal calmly pulled his longsword free.

He looked up.

Expressionless, he fixed his gaze on the now pale-faced Ser Boros Blount.

"Your turn," he said coldly.

"Ser Boros Blount, noble knight."

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