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

"Your Grace, my Queen!"

Kal turned toward Cersei, the smile on his face growing ever more radiant—his voice carefully polite, at least on the surface.

"One of your knights has fallen, and the other… has chosen to surrender."

He tried to phrase it nicely.

But despite the formal tone, there was no mistaking the mocking lilt beneath his words—dripping with sarcasm and smugness.

Cersei's expression, by contrast, had turned as ugly as it could get.

Her composure was slipping, her fury barely masked. Kal might have sounded respectful, but everyone could hear the venom behind his words.

And with this exchange now underway, no one paid any more attention to Borros Blount, still kneeling in shame and begging for mercy at Kal's feet.

After all, Cersei had lost the trial by combat. That made her the loser in front of everyone—and the crowd was far more interested in watching how she would respond to that humiliation.

Because Borros Blount's pathetic kneeling hadn't just disgraced himself… it had shamed the queen too.

Two knights had stood for her. And yet Kal Stone had somehow defeated both—one dead, one kneeling—using means no one could fully explain.

Didn't that mean the Seven were on Kal Stone's side?

To the crowd, this inexplicable outcome was nearly divine—like witnessing a miracle.

So now, hundreds of eyes locked onto Queen Cersei Lannister—hungry, eager, burning with anticipation.

Everyone wanted to see what she would do next.

But just then, under the flickering firelight, something shifted in her face—something subtle, strange.

And before anyone could react, a sharp clang echoed through the silent courtyard.

The sound of steel striking steel.

"…Ahh."

Kal let out a long sigh, not even bothering to look behind him.

"Isn't it better to just live?"

Without turning his head, his longsword moved—its guard perfectly catching the dagger aimed for his side.

The blade had come from behind.

Kal turned, his expression calm, and stared at the twisted, snarling face of Borros Blount—frozen now, contorted in panic, his sneak attack thwarted.

Kal didn't speak another word.

His sword gave a sharp tremble—disarming Blount instantly, sending the dagger flying.

Then with a clean, fluid motion, Kal followed through—slicing away half of the Kingsguard knight's hand.

Only then did he step forward, reaching out with one hand to grab the edge of Blount's chestplate near the collar.

"Please, please—I didn't mean it, I swear I didn't mean it!"

"I know I was wrong!"

"Spare me, I can pay! I have money—lots of money—I can make it up to you!"

Perhaps it was only now that Borros Blount realized what was coming.

And with that realization came utter despair.

He writhed in Kal's grasp, thrashing like a man drowning, desperate to free himself.

But to Kal, his resistance was no different than that of a chicken.

So, under the silent gaze of the crowd, Kal dragged him—still kicking, still begging, still sobbing—across the ground.

Dragging this so-called Kingsguard knight, Kal brought him before the King and Queen.

There, he finally came to a stop.

Looking down at the once-proud knight whose white cloak was now stained with dirt and filth from the dragging, Kal spoke—his voice calm, almost indifferent: "No. You're not sorry because you did wrong. You're sorry because you're about to die."

With that, Kal forced him into a kneeling position—and then stepped behind him.

He didn't spare him a glance. His burning gaze remained fixed on Queen Cersei Lannister's face.

And then, in a voice as still as glass, Kal said: "Ser Borros Blount—do not disgrace the white cloak upon your back."

"That cloak stands for the highest honor of knighthood."

Having said his piece, Kal reached down and steadied Blount's head—tilting it just enough to expose the vulnerable gap at his collarbone.

To Kal, this was mercy—his final attempt at dignity.

But to Borros Blount, already broken by fear, the words meant nothing.

His face twisted grotesquely—snot and tears running together, his eyes wide with animal terror.

Even worse, a foul and cloudy substance seeped from beneath him, betraying the total collapse of his body.

His mouth hung open, searching for Queen Cersei—silent, soundless, hopeless.

But Kal's sword was already in place.

Holding Blount's head steady with one hand, Kal brought the blade in close—laying it flat along the side of his face, the tip aimed directly at the joint between neck and collarbone.

Slowly. Unwaveringly.

He pushed the blade in.

Until the entire length of the sword vanished into the knight's body.

...

"We're almost at Winterfell, boss!"

"Gods, this damn place is freezing!!!"

Kossi all but buried his head into the hood of his cloak as he spoke, trying to shield himself from the cold. Thick white vapor puffed from his nose and mouth with every breath, even though he had already wrapped his face in a woolen scarf.

Hearing this, Kal reined in Fawkes and came to a stop.

He lifted his gaze toward the city ahead.

What appeared before them was a grey-black castle, its somber tones starkly contrasting with the surrounding white snow. It stood quietly amidst the frozen wasteland.

A thin veil of smoke hung around Winterfell, giving it a rare sense of warmth and life in this frigid land.

"Have you ever been here before?" Kal asked as he pulled down the scarf from his face. Like Kossi, his breath turned instantly to mist.

Kal still wore his full suit of armor, but now a thick white bearskin cloak was draped over his shoulders. The heavy pelt didn't just wrap around him—it also covered Fawkes's belly and rump for warmth.

His helmet was lined with the same snowy fur, taken from a white fox he had been lucky enough to spot along the way. One well-placed arrow had ended its life, and the creature had generously offered up both its meat and pelt.

He had to admit—it was very warm.

"What the hell would I come to a place like this for?" Kossi muttered in response, unable to stop grumbling.

"There's nothing here but snow, snow, and more snow. Damn it, I seriously wonder how these Northerners even survive in a hellhole like this..."

Since entering the Neck, the road north had only grown harder.

And the king had been hounding them like a ghost every single day to move faster.

Once past the Neck, it was like stepping into a different world entirely—nothing like the Crownlands at all.

The farther north they traveled, the colder it became. The biting wind and snowflakes had split open the skin on their faces.

And that wasn't even mentioning the Neck itself, where the terrain was a nightmare of wetlands and swamps—enough to drive anyone mad. Mosquitoes, poisonous snakes, and other pests were everywhere.

The dense thickets there remained submerged in festering marshwater all year round. Curtains of fungal plants hung from the branches. If you were lucky, you might spot a lizard-lion or some unusually large, beautiful flowers.

Of course, you'd also encounter snakes whose venomous nature you could never be sure of—but had to treat as deadly anyway.

So if he had a choice, Kossi would never have come to a place like this.

But if you wanted to travel to the North by land, there was no avoiding the Neck.

After all, this swamp was the dividing line between the southern and northern halves of the continent. Setting foot in it meant you'd officially entered the North.

Fortunately, as long as you weren't dumb enough to stray from the causeway, the quicksand lying in wait wouldn't be able to claim you.

"Man... wouldn't it have been great if we'd just taken a boat?" Kossi sighed heavily.

"But now that I think about it—I have been to White Harbor…"

"There's this cobbled plaza called Fish King Square inside the Seal Gate."

"The plaza's got a fountain in the center—but that's not the important part. The important part is, just past the square, there's this little alleyway that leads to a pretty decent brothel!"

"Oh, and there's this tavern too, called The Lazy Eel."

"If you're not interested in White Harbor's oldest whore or the worst rotgut the place has to offer... well, the meat pie stuffed with lard and cartilage is actually pretty good!"

"Perfect for a freezing day—just sit down in that steamy tavern and dig in!"

Kossi kept grumbling, but his mind was already drifting.

And thinking back carefully, he realized—he had been to the North before.

Which, naturally, set him off again on one of his rambling monologues.

Kal, of course, couldn't care less about some crusty old whore or watered-down piss masquerading as alcohol, but when he heard the part about the meat pie stuffed with lard and cartilage—he couldn't help it. His mouth started to water.

His stomach just happened to be empty.

"I want a bowl of thick stew. Damn it, Dog-Tooth Kossi, were you dropped on your head before bringing that up?!"

"I heard Winterfell has hot springs. Maybe we should try them out later!"

"I'd love a good stout. Hot, if possible!"

"…"

Yeah, clearly Kal wasn't the only one thinking along those lines.

Once Kossi got going, it was like a switch flipped—everyone who had been riding through the frigid Northern winds with numb skulls suddenly perked up.

One after another, they started chatting about what they were going to do once the job was done and they were off the clock.

Hearing all their enthusiastic talk about post-mission pleasures, it didn't take long before someone threw shade at Kossi again.

Dog-Tooth Kossi didn't take it lying down.

He turned right around and snapped back.

"Who just barked like a dog? Was that you, Twitchy Fingers Hall?!"

"You bastard think you're getting stew? I say if your fingers haven't frozen off yet, you might be better off putting them to other use."

"Hell, they might thank you for it here—not charge extra. Might even give you a nice discount!"

"As long as your fingers and tongue move as quick as that little rapier of yours!"

"Hahahahahaha…"

Kossi's defiant comeback earned a burst of laughter, lighting a fire under the whole freezing squad.

Mhm. Well—except for Hall.

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