In the course of his research on his father, Kal discovered something strange: a girl named Mya Stone—who should have shared the same origin as him—was nowhere to be found.
Eventually, after some subtle prying and piecing together what others let slip, he realized the truth: it wasn't that Mya Stone didn't exist, but rather that he was the one—Robert Baratheon's bastard, conceived during Robert's days in the Vale, when he was still Jon Arryn's ward.
The bastard wasn't the girl who should have been called Mya Stone, Robert's eldest child.
It was him.
During this search for his origins, Kal found that others seemed to know perfectly well who he was. And in his own memories, he could recall the figure of that man.
A tall, black-haired man who used to toss him into the air when he was small, playing with him.
By that point, Kal had pieced it all together. He hadn't just become Robert Baratheon's firstborn child—a character who was supposed to exist in the original story.
For some unknown reason, that child—originally a girl—had become a boy.
And that boy, at age twelve, had been kicked in the head by a donkey and fallen unconscious… only to wake up with a different soul in his body.
The whole thing felt absurdly theatrical, like something out of a novel written on a whim.
But for the one who had taken Mya Stone's place and become Kal Stone, it was an undeniable truth.
"Tch—seriously…"
Recalling all this, even after six years, Kal couldn't help clicking his tongue, feeling the familiar throb of a headache behind his eyes.
Out of habit, he reached up and pinched himself, and only after confirming once again that this wasn't some hallucination did he let out a helpless, crooked grin.
"Damn it… you'd be laughed out of the tavern if you tried bragging about this while drunk."
Kal shook his head.
He didn't bother looking again at the girls who had started huddling together nearby, maybe hoping to get closer to him. Instead, he slapped the stone he'd been sitting on with a loud smack and stood up.
Then he puckered his lips and blew a sharp whistle.
"Fwhit!"
"You bastards all rested up? If you don't get moving soon, the King—who didn't get laid last night—is gonna come and kick your asses!"
He whistled sharply first, then turned to shout at the men who, after a round of banter, had wandered off to take a piss or a shit, depending on their needs.
Kossi, who had been watching him the whole time—perhaps pretending to take in the scenery like Kal—looked over the moment Kal stood up.
And hearing Kal's shout, the rest of the group, lazy and half-lounging around, began to stir and get back on their feet with noisy grumbles.
"Boss, I heard the Queen's the most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms!"
"I bet the moment the King opens his mouth, that highborn Lannister lady would drop straight to her knees!"
"So even if the King doesn't get lucky with a tavern girl tonight, he's got no reason to take it out on us, right?"
These shameless bastards still hadn't learned to watch their mouths. Even as they stood up at Kal's command and went off to find their horses, their crude jokes kept flowing like they hadn't eaten meat in weeks.
Kal reached for the reins hanging off Fawkes' saddle—his horse had trotted up to him instinctively at the sound of his whistle. But hearing their nonsense, he couldn't help turning his head.
Of course. The one mouthing off was the same guy who'd earlier joked around with Kossi and Simon—probably joined by a few other idiots in their shared brand of idiocy.
Kal smirked, his lips curling into a grin that revealed his white teeth.
"Powell, when the Whitecloaks come for your neck, I hope you don't piss yourself under the skirt of this so-called 'greatest beauty'."
His threat made the others snicker, but before Powell could even open his mouth to fire back, Kossi cut in, flashing a row of canine teeth and barking out a laugh.
"Boss, I don't think the Whitecloaks will even need to grab him. Just standing in front of him might be enough to make him drop to his knees, tear open their armor, and beg to find a warm place to tuck it in!"
Kossi burst into loud, sleazy laughter, clearly enjoying himself—maybe still holding a grudge over Powell stealing bread off his plate earlier.
And as Kossi finished, the rest jumped in with their own crude commentary.
"If I were one of those Whitecloaks and Powell actually did that, I swear the only thing he'd be tasting is my longsword!"
Despite the jeers, Powell wasn't the kind to take it lying down. He puffed up his chest, glared at them, and shouted like he was reciting some sacred vow.
"You basket cases with your balls kicked crooked!"
But the mercenaries weren't about to let his delusions slide.
"Hahaha! You're only fit to sniff Fawkes's ass!"
"…"
Listening to this flood of filthy banter, Kal could only shake his head. This bunch of louts—once the topic veered into anything even remotely vulgar, their mouths ran like drunken poets on autopilot.
The conversation kept spiraling, first about where Powell's tongue should go, then whether he'd just dreamed about the taste of his own piss and that's why he was spewing such nonsense.
From there, it shifted into digging up each other's dark pasts—a flurry of jabs and counter-jabs.
Soon enough, the debate circled back to whether the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms was truly Cersei, before drifting once again to evaluating just how 'soft and juicy' Mary really was.
Kal, however, didn't join in on their chatter. Instead, once he had everything sorted and ready, he prepared to continue the journey along the Kingsroad.
What he'd said earlier wasn't wrong—they did need to find a place for the King to settle before nightfall, somewhere that could properly support that massive royal bulk of his.
As for the rest of them? Well, each had a woven straw mat wrapped in burlap tied behind their horses. If they found a flat patch of ground, they could curl up and sleep just fine—so long as it didn't rain.
Stables? Don't even think about it. Those were reserved for the proud knights bringing up the rear. After all, no noble lord wanted to fall asleep staring up at the stars through a canopy of leaves.
Even the soldiers from House Lannister had their own tents—oilcloth tarps coated with wax. Expensive, high-end stuff.
Kal's group had those too, technically. But like he'd said earlier—unless it rained, no one bothered with them. They weren't fancy enough to fuss over, and in the Crownlands, the night air was still warm enough to get by without cover.
Of course, once they crossed into the Riverlands, they'd prepare properly. None of them were pampered summer blossoms.
And while they joked and mocked each other without pause, when it came to doing their job, every one of them moved with speed and precision.
By the time Kal mounted his horse, everyone else was more or less ready.
The roads near the Crownlands were smooth, and the Kingsroad itself was built as the central artery of Westeros, running north to south with King's Landing at its heart.
In Kal's opinion, it could basically be called the 'highway' of the Seven Kingdoms—constructed during the reign of 'the Conciliator', Jaehaerys I.
It stretched from Castle Black at the Wall, passed through the capital, and reached all the way down to Storm's End in the south—a total distance of nearly 3,200 kilometers.
So this part of the journey was easy. For Kal and his group, it barely counted as travel.
And thanks to how well-maintained the road was, it wasn't uncommon to spot inns and taverns along the way as they rode.
And just like that, Kal and his band of bastards managed to find a decent-sized spot before dusk—suitable enough for their company to settle for the night.
"Let's hope the King likes it."
Stepping out of the inn, Kal looked up at the setting sun edging toward the horizon and stretched his legs a little as he spoke.
They had set out at dawn and ridden all day. To say he wasn't tired would've been a lie, even though Kal had made sure to call for occasional halts during the journey.
Partly to let the horses rest.
Partly to scout the road ahead and ensure it was safe.
As for the men? Their rest was incidental.
While on the road, lunch had been nothing but the rock-hard bread they carried with them—dense enough to kill a man if thrown.
Any grain they brought—mostly barley—was strictly for the horses.
Men weren't as valuable as horses.
"I doubt the King will have any complaints. This place already feels like a palace to me," Kossi muttered casually.
Kal, already having confirmed this inn as their rest point, just smirked and shrugged at the comment.
His job here had only been to inform the innkeeper to vacate his quarters—the King would be arriving soon.
They were the vanguard, the advance team sent ahead to make sure the location was suitable.
What Kal hadn't told the others, though, was that this stop hadn't been chosen at random—far from it.
In fact, the entire route had already been marked in advance.
He was merely pretending to pick spots freely along the way. That, at least, was what the Spider had told him before they set out.
That fat, hairless spider had even slipped him a precious map made of soft deerskin—complete with annotated locations for comfortable overnight stops, contingency plans in case of delays, and detailed fallback instructions.
Kal didn't bother exposing Varys's intentions. He simply focused on doing his job.
Though honestly, he still didn't understand how that powder-scented eunuch was so sure he could read the map at all.
As for Kossi's envious remark, Kal didn't respond with words. He merely turned around and gave the man a firm pat on the shoulder.
"Keep an eye on those long-haired bastards for me. And if they really start acting up, I give you permission to shove horse shit in their mouths."
"Remember—when it's just us on the road, I don't care what they do. But in front of others, we need to play it smart."
His tone was calm but firm, a mix of reminder and warning. Then he shot a pointed glare at the nearby fools who were already chuckling like idiots at what he'd said.
Kal hadn't lowered his voice—they weren't far away, and they'd definitely heard him.
Then he swung himself back onto Fawkes, turned his horse around, and rode off down the road they'd come from.
Now that he'd confirmed the site, he needed to report back. After all, this was still a military operation.